


the heart electric (beats a half-time measure)

by teamfreehoodies



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: 5 + 1 Fic, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, He doesn't really die I promise, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, Jealous Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Near-death Experiences, No Major Character Death, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28082499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreehoodies/pseuds/teamfreehoodies
Summary: Jaskier drops the torch and the dagger, rushing forward to fall to his knees next to Geralt. The light splutters briefly but holds, and Jaskier curses himself even as he hesitantly reaches out to try and wake Geralt. The leather armour of his shoulder is cold under Jaskier’s palm, and weirdly tacky with something;arachas venompings in the back of his mind like a warning, and he hastily wipes his palms off on his already ruined doublet, reaching forward to cradle Geralt's face instead.“Geralt?” he whispers; the horrifying truth of Geralt’s stillness catches in his throat, preventing him from being any louder than that. “Geralt?”OrIt’s not that he hadn’t thought it possible... but Geralt was a witcher. No one had ever mentioned that witchers coulddie.OrFive Times Jaskier Thought Geralt Was Dead, Plus One Time It Was Reversed
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Countess de Stael
Comments: 207
Kudos: 488





	1. The entire history

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier gets mad, gets panicked, and then gets kind of sad. :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a whole spectrum of emotions folks, but welcome to the fic! I hope you enjoy!

_Prologue_

Jaskier has had many an unflattering attribute ascribed to his character in days gone by, and he’d be the first to admit that some of them were very, _very_ true. Impetuous? He had a bit of impulsivity to him sometimes, he could see that. Flighty? Yes, well, he’d never been one for settling down, not when there was life left to be lived. Annoying? Well... he could see where that one came from, and much as he tried to temper the manic energy that sometimes took over when he was excited, it also wasn’t something he’d ever been good at controlling. He was coming around on it anyways, and he’d somewhat decided that annoying was not the worst a human could be, and it sort of went part and parcel with the whole bard thing anyways. After all, how many of his fellow classmates had been impossible to shut up? He wasn’t alone in this, and so he didn’t dwell on it overmuch. 

All this to say, basically, that he knew himself, rather well all things considered, and he knew that his presence was a bit of a challenge to the casual acquaintance. His expiry date wasn’t set in stone, and though it varied wildly between friends, (so far Priscilla and Shani and Essi had the longest tolerance for him, though he kept a careful distance for this very reason), he also knew that it was as certain as the tides, with all the same potential for devastation to be left in its wake. 

He was a man most prone to heartbreak, but usually he could see the end coming. It hadn’t ever gone like this before.

It’s not that he hadn’t thought it possible... but Geralt was a witcher. No one had ever mentioned that witchers could _die_.

* * *

_i._

After the whole business with the elves and trying to change Geralt’s reputation, Jaskier had kind of thought that would be it. Geralt had made no secret that he planned to get rid of him, and though he hadn’t brought it up since that first time, Jaskier was still watching the clock tick down in the corner, constantly aware of the toll his presence took on the witcher. So he’d written his song, and then... just kept following. 

Witchers are... fascinating. And Geralt especially so, for all the ways he’s so much more than what’s said about witchers as a whole. Jaskier wants, no _needs_ , to know more.

Oxenfurt had been close enough to Aretuza that they kept abreast of each other, and as the only university in the Northern Kingdoms not directly tied to producing mages and sorcerers and other magic users it held an important piece of leverage amongst larger society on the Continent. Part of graduating as a master of the Seven Liberal Arts involved the history of both other schools, of the conjunction and the creation of witchers and monsters and everything that made the Continent what it was. Jaskier probably knows more about witchers than the average citizen, and yet the more time he spends with Geralt the more he rather thinks most of that education had been... if not entirely incorrect, then vastly misrepresented. 

_Witchers don’t have emotions. Witchers are halfway between monster and human, and they tilt farther into a monster every year they stay on their Path. Witchers will steal your children if you don’t pay them fast enough, witchers care not for humans; they’re mindless killing machines that need to be feared and used and discarded lest they try to get close enough to kill you too._

Jaskier knows it’s mostly bullshit— wives tales told to scare young children into going to bed on time, whispers round the fire to impress the lads out for a lark, born of the general malice that humans feel for every species or creature removed from themselves. Jaskier has seen enough of the hate that humans are capable of to be well aware that ninety percent of it’s bullshit— but he’s maybe taken slightly more of it to heart than he’d first thought. After all, most rumours start from a grain of something true, don’t they?

The longer he follows Geralt, the more certain he is that everything humans say about witchers is wrong and backwards and based in nothing at all: mindless hate for hate’s sake. Everytime Geralt takes on a contract without the promise of reliable pay; everytime he leaves behind half a widow’s coin before they leave, another piece of Jaskier burns brighter and hotter with the lingering seeds of injustice.

“It’s not _right_ , Geralt,” he objects, staring hotly at the gates of the tiny village they’ve just been run out of. Geralt merely grunts and keeps walking, guiding Roach down the little path further into the woods. This isn’t the first time in the months he’s been following Geralt that they’d been denied a bed in an inn, but it is the first time they’ve been actively told to leave an entire town. Jaskier hadn’t even had a chance to sing “ _Toss a Coin_ ,” and clearly it hadn’t traveled to this shitty Velen backwater ahead of them. 

Jaskier has to turn and run slightly to catch up to Geralt, already far enough down the road that it takes more than a minute for Jaskier to pull up next to him, and by the time he can slow his gait he's panting slightly with the effort. Before Geralt he’d never walked this much and though his legs are constantly sore, he can’t help but notice that his thighs are also much thicker; certainly enough _ladies_ have commented on the change to let him know it’s appreciated.

“That was downright _barbaric_ ,” he says to Geralt again, readjusting his lute strap on his shoulder. “I mean, _honestly_ the nerve to hire a witcher but not let him in your walls. We ought to just leave them to fend for themselves. See how long they can survive a wyvern without you, might change their sorry little tunes about the whole thing.” Geralt says nothing again, simply diverting them off the path now, chasing after some little signs that only make sense to him. 

“Can you smell it?” Jaskier asks, unnerved by Geralt’s silence. He’s an unusually taciturn man, but this is even more silent than normal. He has a tendency to narrate his actions when he isn’t paying attention (an awfully endearing habit by Jaskier’s estimations) but he hasn’t said anything since the alderman told them they would let him no farther into their town, and that if he wanted to be paid he had to send Jaskier in alone to collect it. What was their plan then, if a witcher without a convenient bard had come along? Jaskier has no clue, but he almost wishes that had been the case, the hateful fools.

“No,” Geralt says, which at least is something. They stop in a tiny clearing, just big enough that Roach can stand unbothered by reaching tree limbs, and Geralt starts pulling potions out of his saddle bags. Jaskier trips slightly closer to Geralt, unnerved by the silence of the forest around them. There are no chirping birds singing their songs, no chittering animals rustling through the leaf litter, no gentle breeze shifting the tree limbs. 

“Is it close?” Jaskier asks, putting his back to Roach and Geralt so he can peer deeper into the woods; there’s another, much larger clearing just up ahead, where what looks like a dried up lake bed has carved a bowl out of the earth. It edges up against a sheer rock face; there are old boards half-decayed and falling haphazardly across each other in front of a fissure in the wall. Must be an old abandoned demitirium mine to be this far into Velen. 

“It’s not a wyvern.” Geralt says behind him, suddenly close enough that the hair on the back of Jaskier’s neck stands up, some primal instinct reacting to a predator in his space. He clamps down on the instinctual fear, spinning to face Geralt and laughing to cover up the sudden jump in his heart rate. He doesn’t know for a fact that Geralt can hear it, but sometimes he furrows his brow while looking at Jaskier’s chest, which is either flattering or concerning depending on the reason for it. 

“Not a wyvern?” Jaskier echoes, mentally flipping through the scant monsters he knows anything about. He’s seen Geralt take down a wyvern, a foglet, a nest of drowners and a noonwraith in the three months they’ve been traveling together since Posada, and none of those had taken refuge in what would be, if Jaskier remembers his dimiterum facts correctly, a quite damp cave. “Something new?” 

Geralt frowns at him, a slight quirk of his lips. “No need to be so excited, bard. It’s too dangerous for you to get any closer than this.” 

“You said that about the noonwraith, and the foglets.” Jaskier objects, glaring at the recalcitrant witcher. “How am I to get any inspiration for my songs if you won’t let me watch you doing your work?” 

“I’ll tell you all about it afterwards.” 

“ _Oh_!” Jaskier scoffs, throwing his hands wide and then dropping them to his hips to more effectively glare at an unapologetic Geralt. “Your idea of telling me about it is about as full of details as an abstract impressionist, witcher. I need to see the action! How am I to describe the glory of your exploits if all I get from you is,” here he raises his shoulders up, lowering his voice to a growl and puffing his chest out to better mimic Geralt, “Monster Big. Used Silver. Dead Now.”

Geralt laughs at him, shaking his head as he pulls his sword from the sheath on his back. “Silver sword,” he says, gesturing at the damp cave with it, “big monster.” He flashes a tight grin at Jaskier, “Dead soon.” And then the bastard takes off for the cave, leaving Jaskier behind to gawp at his retreating back. 

“Very funny!” he shouts after him, folding his arms over his chest. “I’ll just wait here then!” Geralt ignores him, and soon disappears into the little fissure in the rock wall at the far end of the basin. 

Jaskier, used to this sort of treatment by now, turns to devote his attention to Roach. He’ll get the horse to like him if it’s the last thing he does.

* * *

Hours later, he’s out of sugar, and yet still no closer to getting Roach to let him touch her anywhere besides her velvety nose; even that concession is only in the name of snapping up the sweet little cubes he keeps sealed in a tiny leather pouch just for her. He lets her snuffle his palm until she sneezes at him, tossing her head when she realizes there’s no more sugar to be found. He backs up, laughing and wisely giving the horse her space. 

He casts another eye at the cave, worried for Geralt. He’s kept an eye on it all afternoon, but with the evening light slanting through the trees, the little bubble of easy to ignore anxiety is building into something closer to panic the longer Geralt is absent. He hadn’t taken this long with the noonwraith, and though Geralt hadn’t actively named whatever creature he’s off fighting, Jaskier is willing to bet he should have already killed it by now.

Something must have happened. Visions of Geralt’s body, broken and bleeding, flash through Jaskier’s mind, and he takes half a step towards the basin before he catches himself. He has no earthly idea what may be in that cave, and only fools rush in. A bard he may be, but never a fool.

Jaskier has a dagger stashed in his lute case, and it’s the work of half a moment to retrieve it. It’s easy enough to find a stick from the ground, and an old shirt in need of darning can stand to lose a sleeve; with a little bottle of oil stolen from Geralt’s packs he has a serviceable torch in no time. Lighting the torch proves a little trickier, but even that’s done quickly, and he’s standing in front of the cave entrance almost before he’s planned out what he’s doing. 

He stops just at the edge, hesitating. The light of his torch flickers against the strange crags in the rocks, sending haunting shadows licking up and down the walls, and though a well of dread for Geralt is rapidly rising in the depths of his stomach, fear for his own life is warring inside of him too. If this thing has killed a witcher, what hope does Jaskier have? 

Maybe Geralt has killed it, and simply been too weak to climb back out, and even now he’s waiting for Jaskier to figure it out and come help him. Maybe it’s killed Geralt and skittered away, and all that’s waiting at the bottom of this crevice is a witcher’s cooling body and a bloodied silver sword. 

The thought hurts, a piercing ache that jolts Jaskier into movement finally. It carries him past the initial terror, but he can’t help the shivery way his breath shudders in and out of his chest, or the bone deep disgust he feels as he scrapes against the damp walls on his way into the cave. The farther in he travels, the narrower it becomes, until he has to walk sideways to make any forward progress at all. 

The rock catches in the slitted design of his doublet as he shimmies through a particularly narrow passage, and he curses, hearing it rip open. _Fucking bollocks_ , he thinks, continuing forward along the passage, more and more certain with every step that he’s made a mistake. With his luck, the cave opens up and has an exit somewhere else and Geralt has arrived back in camp already and is currently packing Roach up and cursing Jaskier for leaving him. Maybe he’ll notice the lute is still there and figure it out, and then Jaskier will wind up being the one rescued. Humiliating, surely, but right now the thought serves as something of a necessary distraction as he finally shimmies his way into a larger section of cave. 

The passage opens up into a cavern, and the trickling sound of distant running water indicates an underground spring of some sort. The echoes of it almost drown out Jaskier’s own breaths, which are definitely coming too fast now: he pauses a moment to breathe deeply as he stares around the cavern, taking stock of where he is. There are strange mounds and massive dangling cobwebs trailing from the ceilings and walls, and fuck but Jaskier knows what massive spider webs mean. He’s right in the middle of what was once an arachas nest, with no sight of his witcher. 

This is not good. Not good at all. He forces his trembling legs to carry him forward, hardly daring to breathe at all now, desperately searching the ground for any sign of Geralt. 

“Geralt?” it’s hardly a whisper but it’s all the louder he can stand to be in the hushed silence of the massive cavern. The torch sputters as he creeps forward, and the dancing shadows fill him with an awful certainty that there’s still something alive down here. He readjusts his sweaty grip on the dagger, intimately aware of how paltry a defense it really is. He’s a bard for Lilit’s sake, he didn’t become one because he relishes the idea of fighting for his life. 

Something crunches beneath his boot, and he shouts, stumbling back from the liquid gushing out in a horrid rush. It pushes against the sides of the leather, and though he can’t feel the damp of the liquid, the visceral disgust is no less debilitating as it shivers up his spine. “Geralt,” he whimpers, overcome with the fear and horror of being here, as he stumbles back from the disgusting mess of what he had just stepped in. His back hits the wall of the cave and he gets a chance to see— fuck, oh _fuck_ , it was an egg sac, and the monster ichor is thickly puddled all around it, trailing back towards him and the wall he’s leaning against. He gags, turning his head to look away. 

As he turns, a glimmer of something shines where the firelight hits it, and he stumbles towards it desperately, hoping against hope it indicates that Geralt is just collecting monster parts or something else innocuous. Jaskier would take a lecture about maintaining distance over having to be alone for one more second down here.

He has to skirt around a series of shortening stalagmites and then duck under an overhang before he comes out to another slightly smaller cavern. The source of the water seems to be here, a gently running spring that— Jaskier pulls up short; shocked to see Geralt splayed out on his stomach across the ground; his sword is still in his outstretched hand, as if he had fallen mid-swing. There’s blood sheeted down the visible side of his face.

He isn’t moving. 

Jaskier drops the torch and the dagger, rushing forward to fall to his knees next to Geralt. The light splutters briefly but holds, and Jaskier curses himself even as he hesitantly reaches out to try and wake Geralt. The leather armour of his shoulder is cold under Jaskier’s palm, and weirdly tacky with something; _arachas venom_ pings in the back of his mind like a warning, and he hastily wipes his palms off on his already ruined doublet, reaching forward to cradle Geralt's face instead. 

“Geralt?” he whispers; the horrifying truth of Geralt’s stillness catches in his throat, preventing him from being any louder than that. “Geralt?” 

He’s still, and cold, pale beyond even his normal witcher hue. Jaskier’s hands are shaking and he watches, as if from a distance, as he pushes down on Geralt’s pauldrons, trying to move them out of the way from where his strange pose has bunched them up around his head. He can’t get at his neck like this, he realizes, though the thought is slow to come to him. He feels shivery, like the world around him is unstable, once removed from his awareness.

It’s harder to move the witcher than he would have thought, though maybe that’s down to the shaking Jaskier can’t control. Jaskier ears are ringing, and his vision is narrowing till all he can see are his hands, shaking over the wolf’s head medallion Geralt never takes off. 

He’s a musician— his hands have to be steady and sure, but he’s never felt more unsure than this, kneeling next to the ~~corpse~~ body of the witcher he’s been following all summer. 

Jaskier’s ears are ringing, and the world feels distant from him; muted and fuzzy. His body moves almost without him, rearranging Geralt to lay more comfortably. He’s dead. The thought skitters across Jaskier’s mind too fast to capture: everything is too slow and too fast at the same time. 

_Shock, you’re going into shock._ A voice that sounds suspiciously like Shani’s filters through his perception and he nods, because _yes,_ that seems right. He’s in shock because Geralt is—

No. He isn’t— he isn’t _dead_ , he can’t be. Jaskier presses two fingers against his neck, because stillness doesn’t necessarily mean dead. Geralt isn’t prone to movement like Jaskier is anyways, still is normal for him. It doesn’t—

There’s no pulse. Jaskier holds his breath, hating how the flickering light sends shadows dancing across Geralt’s face. Nothing beats beneath his fingers. 

No, no no _no no_ — He pitches forwards, crashing his ear into the witcher’s chest, determined that this can’t be how it ends for them.

There’s no beating heart beneath his ear, no pounding pulse beneath his fingers: he holds his breath, but the truth of the dead witcher beneath his hands stays the same.

He’s gone. 

Jaskier breathes out, a shivery calmness taking the place of his previous panic. The ringing is back, a muted fuzziness descending around him as he reaches out to fix Geralt’s posture; Jaskier’s mad dash to find a pulse has left his limbs splayed out too wide to be dignified. No witcher should die looking like a broken doll.

He pulls Geralt from the trickle of water, brushes his hair away from his face and doesn’t shed a tear. He can’t feel just now, lost somewhere to the left of his body. Someone has to take care of this. 

( _He has to take care of this._ )

He picks the torch back up, slides the dagger back into his boot, and comes to crouch by Geralt again. It isn’t... fair, that he can look so peaceful like this. Except for the blood he might be sleeping. _He deserves that_ , Jaskier thinks, still operating from that strange muzziness. He angles the torch into a crevice so it’ll provide enough light to see by and rips a section more of his doublet away. He wets it by the river, and gently kneels down next to Geralt, leaning over his lax face to wash away the blood. He’s taking care of it. Taking care of Geralt. 

He deserves it.

“Jask?” the voice is groggy, and half mumbled, and so Jaskier ignores it, focused on his work. 

“Jaskier?” there’s that voice again, interrupting him as he mourns his friend. Can he not be left in peace to wipe blood from the brow of a noble hero who deserved a better end? 

“Jaskier.” The voice is firm, and directly underneath him, and also the owner of the voice has a sudden grip on his wrist, pushing it away from Geralt’s face. “What the fuck are you doing?” Geralt asks, grimacing up at him, still holding tightly to Jaskier’s wrist as he leverages himself to sitting. 

Jaskier, blinking stupidly at the undeniably alive form of his very best friend in the whole wide world, drops out of the shocky distance that had kept him going and bursts quite suddenly into stunned tears. He throws himself forward into Geralt’s befuddled embrace without thinking about it.

“I thought you were dead, you _oaf_!” he shouts through the lump in his throat, “What the fuck is wrong with _your pulse_!” 

Geralt grunts, awkwardly patting Jaskier on the back once or twice in answer. “It’s slow. Where’s Roach?” 

“Slow enough to make me think _you were dead?!_ ” he asks incredulously, scoffing at Geralt. “Geralt, that would have been important information to know!” It takes monumental effort, but Jaskier pulls himself back together, extricating himself from Geralt’s arms to stand up and grab the torch again. “Roach is fine, I left her in the clearing.” He doesn’t look at Geralt as the witcher pulls himself to standing, busying himself instead with trying to retrace their steps to get out of this cave. “We should head back up, I’m sure she misses you by now.” Geralt claps a heavy hand over Jaskier’s shoulder and squeezes gently. 

“It takes more than an arachas nest to best a witcher, bard,” he says, impossibly gently, moving past Jaskier to head out of the cave. Jaskier takes a moment, safely out of Geralt’s sight, to wipe the tears from his eyes and blow out a heavy breath. Good to know, he thinks, exhausted, and follows Geralt out of the cave. 

He’ll just have to remember that for the next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! See ya next week with the next part!


	2. of human desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time Geralt almost dies it's a little more mundane than the first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for vomiting but i don't think its gross and I'm pretty squeamish so it should be okay. but better safe than sorry.
> 
> The response for the first chapter was so overwhelmingly positive (and this chapter was so short) I decided you guys deserved an early update!!!!! yay!!!! this is the shortest chapter, so don't worry! more content will be there for you on tuesday!

_ii._

Being a witcher is dangerous work. Jaskier knows this. It’s violent and gory, and often quite disgusting. Over the three years Jaskier has been following Geralt, he's come to realize, thankfully, that there’s truly very little that can do serious harm to a witcher. He’s seen Geralt shrug off all manner of injury, from monster bites that would have gutted a mere human to slashes and scratches that would have cut down even a knight in full armour. 

And it’s not that he thinks Geralt is immortal... but it’s undeniable that he isn’t exactly aging either.

Very little is _truly_ known about witchers, but their longer life spans have no functional end as far as Jaskier has been told, so it very well may be real that the only way Geralt can die is through violence or being too slow during a hunt. It’s somewhat comforting to imagine that natural causes won’t get him, even if it sounds like a lonely existence.

Holding Geralt’s hair back as he vomits, again, Jaskier tries to remember this. He’s been sick with something for two days now, though Jaskier hadn’t known that at first. The first day the only way Jaskier knew anything was amiss was that Geralt kept disappearing off the path for several moments before coming back each time looking more and more wan as the day progressed. It wasn’t until Jaksier (feeling ill with worry himself,) followed Geralt into the woods and caught him vomiting bright yellow bile that the grumpy witcher had even admitted he wasn’t feeling top notch. 

“Get it all out,” Jaskier murmurs lowly, rubbing slow circles into Geralt’s back as he heaves weakly from his position kneeling on the ground. “There you go,” he says, keeping up his steady litany of soft soothing words, even as he tries to cast his mind back over the past several days in search of what might have caused this sudden illness. 

They’d been fine after the contract with the Lyrain Duchy, and nothing untoward had happened with the alderman in Aldersburg. In fact, the only thing that had caused them any trouble at all was the hedgewitch who’d accosted them in the tavern as they left town three days ago, and all she’d had to say was something vile about witchers and their whores. An awfully unfair estimation of their relationship if you asked Jaskier: he was firstly not actually a whore, and secondly: how hard was it to tell he was a bard when he spent all his time singing songs and performing? 

Geralt heaves loudly, a wretched sound, and Jaskier starts up his slow circles again, chagrined to find he’d let his thoughts wander away from him and quite forgotten their current position entirely. 

“Get—” Geralt lurches forwards abruptly, nearly taking Jaskier with him into the mess at their feet.  
  
“ _Oh,_ no you don’t,” Jaskier grunts, yanking back on Geralt’s shoulders and plopping him down on his ass several feet from the pile of bile on the forest floor. He leaves him there, panting with his head hanging between his knees, to kick dirt over the mess and bring Roach back around. 

“What should I get?” he asks, already pulling the saddle bag with Geralt’s potions and oils free from Roach’s tack. He brings it over and settles on his knees next to Geralt, fighting down the uneasy stirrings of anxiety as they circle low in his gut. 

Geralt’s really not doing well. He’s pale and drawn but also flushed, two highpoints of color in his cheek marking him as sick— if witchers can get sick. Can they get sick? “Geralt, do witchers get the flu? It’s not a pox, is it?” he asks, holding Geralt’s forehead to feel his temperature. He doesn’t know what good he’d be in that situation but not _knowing_ the source of Geralt’s illness right now is driving him insane. 

Geralt leans into the contact, another sign he’s delirious and losing it, and then _growls_ subvocally, a neat trick that Jaskier _feels_ more than hears. “Get—” he starts again, only to cut himself off with more heaving. Jasier pushes him forward over his knees, but there’s nothing left in him, not after two days of this, non-stop. He pants, spits, and then gestures shortly to the bag sitting temporarily abandoned next to Jaskier’s thigh. “Golden—” is as far as he gets before he’s heaving again.

“ _Fuck,_ Geralt, golden _what?_ I don’t know what that means!” Jaskier hears the tremulous whine in his voice, and though he hates it viscerally there’s not much he can do about it with Geralt possibly dying in his arms. 

“Helps,” Geralt rasps out, and then goes frightfully limp, dead weight enough to send Jaskier toppling over backwards, pinning him underneath Geralt’s impressive bulk. 

“Geralt?” Jasker shakes him, but there’s no answer, no movement. He can just about reach the bag still, even with Geralt half collapsed over his lap, and he grapples for it, cursing his shaky hands as he fumbles the bag twice before he can drag it close enough to go through. 

“Golden what, you _bastard?!_ ” Jaskier mutters, shaking the little bottles out of the bag entirely and fumbling through them. What a time to discover that Geralt has told him absolutely _fuck-all_ about witchers before this; panic is clogging his throat and making it difficult to breathe or maybe that’s the fear compressing his ribs and making the bottles blurry— no fuck, that’s definitely the tears blurring his vision as he pants roughly and tries desperately to find a tiny vial that might fit the frustratingly vague single word description he got from Geralt before he die— _no_ don’t think that, he’s not dead, he’s _fine_ , he _has_ to be fine. 

_He’s a witcher for fuck’s sake_ , Jaskier thinks, then nearly collapses in relief when his hand finally lands on a vial that’s filled with a delicate golden liquid. 

The angle is awkward; he has to basically prop up Geralt’s head in a chokehold to keep him steady, using his thumb to gently tip his jaw open. He drags the cork out of the bottle with his teeth, and holds it there while he tips the liquid into Geralt’s open mouth. 

The vial empties quickly, and nothing happens for a heart-stopping moment; Jaskier really does collapse when Geralt suddenly draws in a shuddering breath, color flooding back into his face and neck, evening out the unusual flush that had been graced across his cheeks. 

Jaskier pants, almost harder than Geralt had been earlier, flopped backwards on the forest floor, arms outspread, with Geralt still pinning his lower half to the ground. Even if he wanted to move, or felt strong enough to, he doesn’t think he could free himself from his current position.

Roach snuffles at the ground near his head, blowing Jaskier’s hair out of place with a well-timed huff. “Me too, girl,” he says, nonsensically, reaching up to pat her cheek gently. She nips at him, contrary as ever, and he laughs, giddy with relief. 

_Fuck_ , but that was a close one. Jaskier had had no idea witchers almost died _this often_. He gets lost in thoughts of what might have happened if he hadn’t been there, and only pulls himself out of the frightening spiral that turns out to be when Geralt groans, long and low.

“Geralt?” Jaksier asks, sitting up to grab a gentle hold of Geralt’s face again. He feels so much better already, and Jaskier smiles as he watches those golden eyes blink open to stare at him. “You’re lucky I have an artist's eye for color, witcher,” he says, only slightly spitefully, enjoying the way Geralt’s brow immediately furrows in consternation. “I mean honestly, imagine if I’d been colorblind and all I had to go off of was one word?”

“Wouldn’t have stopped you following me, would it.” Geralt asks flatly, still laying across Jaskier’s lap.

“No, not at all!” Jaskier rejoins cheerfully, “but I might have asked more questions upfront.” 

“Questions.” Geralt grunts, still asking without any kind of upwards inflection to his voice at all— it’s honestly kind of impressive. 

“Oh yes, many, and you’re going to give me answers or so help me, next time I’ll _let_ you die.” 

Geralt sighs, sounding hugely put-upon, shifting Jaskier’s legs slightly with the force of his expanding chest. “No, you won’t.” 

“No, I won’t,” Jaskier admits, too honest for the moment by far. “Anyways,” he starts, idly rubbing little circles into Geralt’s temples to comfort him, “what caused all that then? I’d guess bad meat, but we’ve been eating the same food for days, and _don’t_ think I don’t know that you can eat raw flesh. I haven’t forgotten _that_ lovely moment, though you’d like me to, I know you would.” 

Geralt hums at him again, and Jaskier lets the chatter subside, used to Geralt’s slower communication by now. “Think the hedgewitch really meant that curse.” 

“What did you do to that woman, Geralt?” 

“May have tried to pay her.” 

“ _Tried to pay_ —” Jaskier’s thoughts catch up with his mouth and he bursts into startled laughter, leaning forward over Geralt’s head with the force of it. “No wonder she was yelling about whores, _bloody hell,_ Geralt.” 

Geralt smiles, just a slight quirk of his lips, but Jaskier catches it before he lets it fade out. “More used to whores than anything else, figured there had to be a reason she was interested.”

And doesn’t that just break Jaskier’s heart? “Lilit’s tits, Geralt. That’s _bleak_.” Geralt just hums, unconcerned.

“C’mon,” Jaskier says eventually, jostling Geralt from side-to-side, itching with the need to get moving. “Time to go.” 

Geralt grunts, refusing to move. “Go where?” he asks, and Jaskier laughs because for as whiny as he sounds it’s also the most alive he’s sounded in two whole days. 

“You owe me information, witcher, and lord knows we could both use a drink, and you need a meal. There ought to be a town just ahead, or at least somewhere more suitable to make camp. Up you get.”

Geralt grumbles but he does get up, and they clean up quickly, ready to leave behind the worry and fear that’s still lingering in the air here. 

They’re a little ways down the road, Geralt riding on top of Roach, saddlebags all packed up and potions put away again, looking much healthier, when he suddenly offers up the answer to a question that Jaskier had almost forgotten asking. 

“Golden Oriole.” he says, apropos of nothing as they meander down the path. “Cures toxicity.” 

“Toxicity?” Jaskier asks, feet planted to the ground by the shock of this new information. “How often do you experience ‘toxicity’ that you just have a cure _constantly_ on-hand?” 

But Geralt doesn’t answer, laughing quietly to himself as he passes Jaskier by. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier laughs incredulously, chasing him down, “I asked a question! Geralt!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! comments make me really really happy and i'm already so thankful for all the nice things you guys have said so thank you!!!! for real this time, i'll see you on tuesday!


	3. takes about seventy minutes to tell.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a djinn twists a wish, Jaskier has... a very bad time, and Geralt gets a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ironically this is what originally sparked the fuel for this story! We were having a discussion about Jaskier's reaction to thinking Geralt was dead in Bottled Appetites and then somehow.... it got away from me. I just reread that conversation actually and the original idea was... less angsty than what i did to it lol I would say oops but also, isn't this what we're all here for anyways???
> 
> cw  
> there's a sex scene here between the countess (Carlotta) and Jaskier. It's skippable if you like, Stop reading at: "Jaskier shakes his head, smiling as he crawls forward up the chaise lounge..." and Start again at "He pulls her dress away from his face so he can see her hanging over him, panting as the last aftershocks of her pleasure shiver through her body." 
> 
> Things that are important to the story contained within this: Jaskier is teased about wanting Geralt to desire him. that's it! enjoy!

_iii._

Jaskier doesn’t like to brag, but in the nearly twelve years he’s been following Geralt, he’s become something of an expert on all things witcher. There’s no mere mortal anywhere on the continent who knows as much about the truth of them as he does, and certainly none that sing so well. He’s also, entirely unrelated, come to realize that no one appreciates them quite so much as he does either.

“I just think it’s strange!” Carlotta cries, laughing as she fans herself under the shade of the vines twining around her trellis. The dry heat is good for the grapes which will mean a better crop yield for the winery she runs, and which Jaskier has learned a surprising amount about this summer. 

“It’s not strange,” Jaskier protests, laughing himself, “I swear to you it’s true!” Carlotta falls back on her chaise, cackling, and Jaskier lets the warmth in his chest bubble and expand, feeling more and more in love with her every moment. She’s wonderful, gorgeous, splendid; truly a gift from the goddesses delivered into his life almost a decade ago now, their paths having crossed during a particularly heated debate about the history of the Temerian border: he was wrong, she was right, and Jaskier had fallen in love right there. 

“You only don’t think it strange because there’s something not quite right in that head of yours, but I promise you, anyone else would think it completely wild!” She points at him with her fan, hiding a smile in the scrunched up playful frown on her charming face. 

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, putting his hands up in mock surrender, “You’re right my dear, of course you are, my strange little head happens to think it’s adorable that witcher’s pupils are slitted like a cats, but I only think so, my love,” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially, “because when Geralt is excited they go round, just like a kitten’s might.” 

“Oh, you jest!” she exclaims, swatting playfully at his chest, “what excites a witcher, except monster slaying and coin? You tell me you’ve seen the eyes of a witcher who’s excited?”

Jaskier hums low in his throat, imitating Geralt as he leans forward to snag a few grapes from Carlotta’s bowl. “You may have heard of him, rather famous these days after all, thanks to yours truly.” 

“ _Oh,_ I’m sorry, I am,” Carlotta says, giggling to herself, “I just imagined the fearsome White Wolf, with eyes like a cats, doing the little,” she shimmies her hips in the seat, shaking her shoulders too so her whole body is in on the movement, “this thing, you know how they do, right before they pounce. _Oh!_ What I wouldn’t pay to see that play out in front of me.”

Jaskier shakes his head, smiling as he crawls forward up the chaise lounge, covering her delightful body in the shelter of his own. “I would pay quite a lot to see _you_ do _that_ again,” he purrs, letting his breath ghost over her neck as he leans in closer to tease: he won’t kiss her yet, not while she’s shivering so pleasantly underneath him. 

She hums in encouragement, leaning ever so slightly into his touch, arching up off the chaise just enough that her hair slides off her chest, revealing the pale swell of her shoulder where the neckline of her dress has slipped, (or more likely been tugged down— he’s known her long enough to know her tricks by now, though he still isn’t immune to them). 

“Tell me more about your witcher, Julian,” she whispers in his ear. Her breath ghosts along the shell of it, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and he shivers, slipping slightly closer to the warmth of her body. He slides his knee down the chaise, readjusting his stance so he can roll his hips into hers, redistributing his weight carefully to make the most use of it.

“What do you want to know,” he asks, half-moaning with the intensity of the sensation as heat pools low in his belly, pleasure dancing along his spine. 

She bites gently at his neck, just pressing her teeth into his skin enough so he can feel the pressure; a soft bite of pain that blends into pleasure as he gasps above her. She drags a hand up his thigh and cups his ass, pulling his hips flush against hers, making him drop his weight more suddenly than he intended onto her. 

They both gasp at the same time, though it’s swallowed up by their mouths colliding, passion taking over. Jaskier slides a hand into her hair and tugs, eliciting a moan low in the back of her throat. Her hand is still on his ass, and she tries to tug him closer again, so he rewards her with another roll of his hips into her, the slow drag of friction lighting up his cock. If he wasn’t fully hard before, he is now. 

She pulls away from his mouth with a gasp, leaving both of them panting as he continues the slow roll of his hips, keeping up a steady rhythm that she’s pushing back into, a counterpoint that’s steadily driving him wild. His skin is on fire, desire for her warring with the prickling knowledge that they’re exposed, here in her back garden, where anyone could walk by.

Carlotta grins wickedly at him, perhaps sensing the direction his thoughts have gone in: “Do you think your witcher would get excited by us, if he could see us like this?” Geralt’s face flashes into his mind’s eye; the same image as when Jaskier had first seen his pupils go round, lips parted, eyebrows soft and relaxed, eyeline trained directly at a filled bathtub. He imagines that look pointed at him, desire for him making Geralt’s pupils expand, and is blindsided as his pleasure rushes up, whiting out his vision as he shudders through the first roll of his orgasm. His knees buckle as he falls more firmly onto Carlotta, losing temporary control of his muscles.

He hasn’t come in his breeches since he was still in Oxenfurt, and he laughs incredulously at himself.

Carlotta, still panting underneath him, quirks an eyebrow at him. “I take it back.” she says, dragging her hand up from his ass to thread into his hair, even as she puts her other arm back so she can rise on her elbow and get closer to him where he’s pulled slightly back from her. “The pupil thing isn’t strange.” She captures his mouth in a kiss, using the hand still in his hair to direct him; he’s helpless to her whims and he moans into it, hopelessly turned on and overstimulated, “ _you_ coming in your pants because I asked about your _witcher_?” she mock-growls, yanking his head back, just this side of painful. “Now, _that’s_ strange.” 

Still holding him by the hair she flips them, and he goes along with it, shifting to the center of the chaise so she can crawl over him, getting her knees on either side of his hips. She bounces slightly in his lap and he groans, pain and pleasure riding too close to each other to separate them out, and she laughs again, pushing him down so he’s laying flat on his back. “That was mean of me, wasn’t it?” she simpers, walking her knees further up the chaise so she’s straddling his chest. He slides his hands up her creamy thighs, enjoying the sensation and the way it makes her pupils dilate, obviously taking pleasure from the feel of his hands sliding closer to her hips. 

“No meaner than I deserved,” he pants, excited now for her game. “How can I make it up to you?” She smiles, a wicked gleam in her eyes that promises only the best of punishments. She shifts even further up his chest and he slides his hands higher to match, finally getting to cup the generous swell of her ass in his palms. 

“Let me sit on your face?” He clenches his hands reflexively in his excitement at her question and she laughs, jolting forward into his grip. She crawls even closer, hiking up her skirts and then dropping the edge over his head so he’s cocooned in the soft tent of fabric with just her cunt, close enough to taste and yet still too far away. He pulls her into position, delighting in her giggling laugh over him, determined to make it fade into breathy moaning as he gets to work. 

He licks a broad swathe up her folds towards her clit, to start, moaning himself at the first taste of her. She gasps in response, flinching ever so slightly forward, chasing more pressure than he’s giving her. He smiles, pleased with himself, purposefully keeping the pressure light, and pulls her closer by the grip on her ass, dragging the flat of his tongue gently over her clit again. 

She grinds down against him, and he retaliates by finding her entrance, sliding his middle finger inside as he laps gently at her clit, taking pleasure in her moans as she rocks back and forth on his face. She’s trying to fuck herself on his hand and mouth at once and he moans against her too, enjoying the natural glide of his fingers as they slide inside her.

“Oh, _Julian,_ ” she gasps, winding her fingers through his hair again, keeping his face pressed firmly against her, “you can do better than _that_.” He redoubles his efforts, sliding another finger in along with the first, angling them to find the spot that will make her shake above him. “Oh!” she exclaims as he finally finds it, and he presses his tongue into her clit, sucking just slightly as she fucks herself back on his hand. “Yes!” she shouts, both hands in his hair now. “Julian!” He slides a third finger in her, pressing up slightly and she keens, her sweet musk flooding his mouth as she quivers above him. Her hips jerk, spine going rigid, and she gasps as he slips his fingers free, falling forward to catch herself against the back of the chaise.

He pulls her dress away from his face so he can see her hanging over him, panting as the last aftershocks of her pleasure shiver through her body. 

He smiles wide and self-satisfied, letting it turn into genuine laughter when she rolls her eyes at him. She slides down next to him and he shifts farther up the chaise so they can both recline against it, tangling their leg together. The breeze ruffles over them, a nice counterpoint to the sweat cooling on his skin, and Jaskier ignores the mess in his pants in favor of just basking in the afterglow with Carlotta. 

She only gives him a minute, before she interrupts his blissed out musings: “So, are we going to talk about how you came in your breeches just at the mention of your witcher?” He jolts unpleasantly, tensing against the implications of her words. 

“I don’t—, I mean there’s—, It’s not really— Well, it’s just—” she saves him from himself by laughing and patting his chest lazily, interrupting his sputtering attempts to answer.

“It’s alright, Jaskier, really, we’re all a little in love with people we can’t have.” She says, slightly wistful as she drops her cheek to rest on his chest. That’s a beautiful line, he thinks, a gorgeous sentiment really, but he doesn’t know what she means by applying it to him.

He’s not in love with the unattainable, not really in love with anything but her and the open road and the rush of performance and the unique high that comes from writing a brilliant lyric or composition. None of that is unattainable, in fact he has most of that right now, or would have it soon at the very least, whenever he gets around to moving on from her estate and going back to traveling with Geralt. 

He’s been more difficult to track down since the whole... Cintran thing. Prone to grumping around and generally making himself difficult to pin down. The longest they’ve traveled together in between, actually now that he thinks about it, had only been a month, and that stretch of time had been nearly two summers ago now. The rest of their adventures have been mere weeks, separated by Geralt going off on contracts he claims are too difficult to even let Jaskier travel with him, because, in his words “You attract trouble the way the moon attracts the tides.” which is hurtful and untrue: Jaskier doesn’t attract trouble, he just always seems in the right position to find it. 

He does miss Geralt though, and he feels that familiar itch in his feet to explore; to travel and sing and live on the road and the thrill of adventure. Carlotta sneaks a hand up his shirt, scratching gently through the hair on his chest, and he presses a gentle kiss to her temple, luxuriating in this peace while he can. He’ll be moving on soon, though he’ll make sure to visit again. He can’t leave her for long.

She’s his muse, after all.

* * *

He stays another week with Carlotta, before the urge to wander bites him too hard and he packs up his lute and his songbook and a spare set of traveling clothes, ready to get back on the road and track down his witcher, wherever he’d gotten off to. One of the nicer side-effects of Geralt’s newfound ( _you’re welcome_ ) fame is that he’s become markedly easier to keep track of. Information of the White Wolf’s whereabouts tends to stick in people’s minds, especially if Jaskier or his music have been through a town recently. After all, how many witchers out there have white hair and golden eyes and are as noble as any knight and twice as dashing? 

He swings through the main hall, heading back out to the garden to track down Carlotta; he won’t leave before saying goodbye, and maybe sneaking in a kiss or two more as well.

She’s weeding her garden when he finds her, tending to the plots of carefully maintained flowers and herbs and other such plants. He must confess, he doesn’t know much of flora (even less of fauna, though he’d had a lovely dalliance with a woman named Shauna his first year on the Path with Geralt) but her garden was a thing to behold, even for a layman like himself. 

“Leaving already?” she calls out, spotting his approach. 

“Yes, I’m off in search of adventure and riches, lovely as the stay has been. I’ll see you in the autumn?” He kneels down next to her, leaning forward to catch a whiff of the roses she’s tending. Carlotta sighs heavily, sitting back on her heels, slowly pulling the gloves off her hands. 

“I’m sorry, Julian.” she says firmly, pushing the gentle wisps of hair that are always so lovely away from her face. “This has been wonderful, it has, but you know my wedding is this winter and it just wouldn’t be a good look to have you staying with me so close to the date.” 

A cold ball of dread drops into Jaskier’s gut as he slowly leans back from the roses. “Wedding?” he asks, wondering if she’s ever mentioned it to him. 

“Yes, I’m acquiring the neighboring territory, it’s all very exciting. It puts me two steps closer in line for the Redanian crown, not that that’s all that likely, but still,” she grins widely at him, “imagine the influence I’ll have.”

“Right,” he says, slightly stunned for words. He’d thought... well he’d thought she was as in love with him as he is with her. 

“Oh don’t be sad, Julian,” she says, kneeling forward to cup his face in her palms. “It’s been a long time, you had to know this wasn’t going anywhere _real,_ right?” 

Jaskier smiles brightly, holding her wrists gently, “Of course, dear! You know how poets are, I’ll be alright.” He just has to haul the broken pieces of his shattered heart back together first, but he can’t exactly do that in Carlotta’s rose garden. 

“I still consider us friends, Julian, I just want to make sure this goes smoothly, you understand?” She asks, worrying her gloves between her fingers, the only sign that she’s at all upset by this revelation, but Jaskier holds onto it like a liferaft regardless, casting himself at the tiny gesture like it’s a kindness. 

“I’ll write you!” he says brightly, standing up and brushing invisible grass stains off his knees. And he will; after all, she’s the reason he’d begun writing poetry in the first place. She’ll always have a piece of him. 

“And I you,” she replies warmly, standing up as well. She holds out her arms, smiling at him, “A hug before you go?”

Who is he to say no? 

They fit together as well as ever, he thinks, as he wraps her up in his arms and she tucks her chin over his shoulder, pressing their ears together in a warm press of flesh that slightly tickles, the way it always does. They both pull back at the same time, blinking twinned tears out of their eyes. 

“Thank you, Julian,” she holds one hand over her breast and smiles at him, “thank you for everything.” 

“I should say the same to you, Carlotta.” He steps back, picking up his pack and his lute and slinging the straps over his shoulder. “I’ll think of you fondly—”

“And often!” she interrupts laughingly, and he’s helpless but to join in as well.

“And more often than you may know!” he finishes, laughing even as he turns to walk away, leaving with a quiet wave and a whispered _I love you_ he keeps to himself. 

This was probably for the best, he thinks, feeling every year he’s loved her weighing heavily on his shoulders. After all, what’s a poet without heartbreak? 

* * *

Sober appears to be the answer to a question Jaskier had first posed two weeks before, because so far he’s spent most of his heartbroken mourning either deep in his cups or on his way there. 

He’d been slowly making his way east, tracking whispers of a wild-eyed witcher, and that has led him to a spot just outside Rinde. He has vague ideas that he might find Geralt and they’ll go on an adventure because he can use the distraction, but when he finally finds the witcher it doesn’t... quite go that way. 

He’s drunk still, and heartbroken, and somewhat tired of Geralt ignoring the child that belongs to him, if only because he’s rather more than certain that’s the reason Geralt’s been ignoring him as well. It’s clear to see it’s been bothering him after all, but confronting Geralt about it doesn’t exactly go as planned. 

There’s yelling, and then a djinn, and then blood and pain and fear and a lot of blurry memories which don’t really make much sense and then suddenly he’s waking, blearily blinking up at a canopy of a very fancy bed. For a moment he thinks he’s back in Carlotta’s bed, but his throat aches, and he remembers, too late, of course not. She left him. 

Where he is then, seems to be a bedroom of— he half sits up, surprised to see a woman at the end of the bed. Admittedly, he doesn’t have a clear picture of what happened after the argument with Geralt, but this woman doesn’t seem familiar at all. She turns around in the midst of his stumbling, sleep-blurred attempt to ascertain where exactly he is, and things rapidly devolve from there. 

It’s not until he’s stumbling out of the house, after a maze of far too many corridors and a thankfully easy to locate staircase, that he finally has enough time to get his thoughts in order. The sunlight is a glorious thing to feel on his skin, and Geralt’s approaching face is even better to witness. 

“Oh, Geralt. Thank the _gods,_ I might live to see another day. We need _to go_.”

“Jaskier, you’re okay.” He sounds amazingly relieved for a man who most recently called his singing a “filling-less pie,” but Jaskier is magnanimous and he will forgive him this slight, provided he gets them out of here post-haste. 

“I’m glad to hear that you _give_ a monkey’s about it.” Okay, he’s not that magnanimous about it. He’s got a reputation to protect, he’ll forgive Geralt later. 

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. What happened?” Excellent question, Jaskier doesn’t actually know for certain, but as usual, he’s answering even before he’s really thought about it.

“Well, I was having a rather lovely dream, which then turned into a nightmare. There were naked women in both parts. The first one was loving, tender, very generous. The second, _significantly_ more terrifying.” Geralt stops walking, naked concern in his eyes as he turns back to the house. Oh, _fuck no._

“She wants to be the vessel.” Which makes no sense unless Geralt has somehow seen this woman before— oh, _fuck._

“What, you know this woman?” Dangerous to herself and others and beautiful beyond compare? “Of course you know this woman.” Jaskier answers himself. 

But Geralt’s hardly listening, still staring back at the house Jaskier had only just escaped from. “She wants to become more powerful. But she’ll die.” 

As if that would be a problem, honestly. “Well, let’s pray for her, on our way _out of town!_ ” Jaskier cries, gesturing the way they should be headed, which is back towards where... oh yes, the elf, the healer from yesterday, is waiting with Roach. 

Geralt, contrary bastard of the century, instead heads back towards the fucking manor. 

“ _Oh_ —,” for _fuck’s_ sake. Jaskier chases after him, sweeping low to really let Geralt feel the full force of his incredulity, “Are you perhaps _short_ of a _marble_?!” he shouts, as the elf does them both a favor and grabs Geralt’s arm.

“You have to go in there, don’t you? I recognize the look. I know how you feel.” he says, pulling Geralt to a sudden stop.

“You’re making me uncomfortable.” Geralt replies, because he is _stupid_ and _stubborn_ and exists primarily to drive Jaskier absolutely _batty_. 

“Oh, no, no, no, _no, no_.” As Geralt starts for the manor door again, Jaskier puts on a burst of speed to get in front of him. “Do not _tell me_ that this is _finally_ the moment you’ve decided to _actually_ care about someone other than yourself?” Geralt stops, an impatient grimace on his face. Jaskier has exactly one plea left to try and get them both out of here alive. “Leave the _very sexy_ but insane witch to her _inevitable demise!_ ” Right, it isn’t his best work, but he’s still slightly upset about the whole assault thing. A man has some dignity after all.

“She saved your life, Jaskier. I can’t let her die.” And fuck, but there is that. Geralt pushes past him and Jaskier, upset and rattled and beating down flares of... _jealousy? What the fuck?_ Can do nothing but let it happen. 

With Geralt gone on his mad dash to save the stupid sexy witch there’s nothing to do but wait, and finally take notice of the fact that the elf-healer is completely covered in blood. 

“Did he save you from yourself as well, or does he only do that for witches now?” Sue him, he’d never claimed not to be petty.

“We were jailed and he used his wish to explode the guard’s head.” The elf-healer answers, slightly more flat than Jaskier really thinks that kind of sentence deserves.

“I’m sorry, he _what?_ ” Jaskier exclaims, coming to stand closer to the other man, examining the blood splatter soaked into the elf’s hair. He’s absolutely covered in gore, and— _oh gross_. Jaskier delicately picks a bit of offal from the elf’s shoulder, grimacing the entire time.

“I’m here for the mage. If your witcher can save her I have no compunctions about how we come to that conclusion,” he says, apparently immune to the nastiness that’s covering him. Well, he is a healer. Jaskier supposes he must have seen worse. 

“And if he dies in the process?” Jaskier counters, certain of the answer even before he asks. 

“Have you ever been in love, bard?” he replies, his eyes finding Jaskier’s and pinning him in place. He breaks first, stepping back from the elf, strangely unwilling to answer him. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her, no pain I wouldn’t endure.” _No other loss he wouldn’t tolerate_ hangs unsaid between them, and Jaskier, sick with worry, turns to check on the manor. 

The sky darkens around them and the manor trembles, the heavy ozone stink of chaos swirling in the air. Jaskier gets the healer’s name out of him and then Jaskier and Chireadan pace, both too anxious to leave but too afraid to go inside themselves. 

A man pushes out of the door, and Jaskier tries to ask him what he knows, but the answer is _fuck-all_ , and so Jaskier returns to his careful vigil with Chireadan.

The sky darkens again, and Jaskier takes several steps back from the manor, watching the sky as clouds swirl in a darkening spiral over the house. Well, Djinns are famously bad-tempered after all, but this kind of anger does seem disproportionate to the supposed crimes. _This mage had better be worth it,_ he thinks, ignoring the swirling wind as he tries not to let the anxiety in the pit of his stomach overwhelm him entirely. 

The building cracks ominously, and Chireadan grimaces at Jaskier. There’s another almighty boom and they both shout, jumping back in horror as the top level of the house collapses inwards. Stray bits of rubble bounce down the sides of the manor, but most of it must have gone straight down. 

“Oh _fuck_ , they were in there.” Jaskier says, stunned by the enormity of what’s just happened. Distantly he notices the sun is coming back, that the world around them is lightening as the clouds dissipate, but a larger part of him is staring numbly at the collapsed remnants of the manor, knowing, deep in his bones, that Geralt is dead. Everything he’s survived— and now he’s dead for a random fucking witch. 

“Are you sure they were up there?” Chireadan asks, stumbling closer to the house ahead of Jaskier, who can’t really bring himself to do anything but stare in a sort of mute horor. 

“This can’t be happening. _This can’t be happening._ ” Not that mute, but really, a collapsed building? For a crazy witch? 

“She could not have survived it.” _Who cares_ , Jaskier thinks, _who cares about her._

“Why did Geralt go in there? It doesn’t make any sense. _What_ , to save a mad fucking _witch?_ Why?” he asks, desperately, drawn closer to the house almost against his will.

Questions without answers, and grief is rising up to swallow him whole. He falls to his knees, unable to stay standing under the weight of the impossible reality he’s faced with now. Chireadan is still talking, but Jaskier isn’t listening to him. 

The loss is incalculable, but his brain is focused on the small mundanities of it right now. “What am I supposed to do now, _hm_?” No more Countess to inspire his poetry, no more Geralt to inspire his songs. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way.” He was never supposed to outlive a fucking witcher. Geralt is so much larger than life, much larger than Jaskier’s life, surely. “I’m gonna write you the _best song,_ ” he will too, “So that everyone remembers who you were, what we did, everything we saw.” A fitting tribute for the White Wolf, who should have been a legend from the beginning anyways. “And I will sing it for the rest of my days,” he promises, imagining how lonely they will be, how empty without Geralt. 

Chireadan approaches, and lays one hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him from his reverie. 

“They’re alive.” he says, as if that’s not the most earth-shattering news he might have offered.

“Bollocks.” 

Jaskier lurches up to the window that Chireadan had just been standing at, unbelieving. Yet again, narrowly escaping death, something that should have killed him and yet here Geralt is, squeaking out alive and— He’s fucking the witch. 

“Geralt?”

Relief wars with more of that strange jealousy, his mouth running away from him as he processes the mental load of the last several minutes. “ _Oh,_ they’re alive. They’re _really_ alive! _Whoo!_ I mean, _he_ —” Chireadan pulls him away from the window, roughly, “Whoa, _hang on!_ ” he tries to say, but the elf’s grip doesn’t falter and he pulls him all the way back to where Roach is waiting placidly, eating the grass growing between the cracks in the stones that pave the manor’s grounds. 

“They’re going to be busy.” Chireadan sounds wrecked, and part of Jaskier understands why; after all if he’s really in love with the witch that has to have hurt, to see her literally mid-sexual congress with someone else. Jaskier has no idea what that must have felt like, having never experienced it himself, but he can imagine the kind of devastation that might wreak on an unsuspecting man, and he feels that the both of them deserve a good ale to deal with the fraught morning. 

“Chireadan, I need a drink. Do you need a drink? We deserve drinks,” he says decisively, feet turned already towards the town. Chireadan will follow or he won’t but either way, Jaskier’s determined to go find the nearest tavern and steady his nerves with a good ale. 

“I know a place.” Chireadan says, passing Jaskier so he can lead the way. Images of the witch leaning over Geralt, his hands pawing at her sides, dragging up her dress, flash unbidden in Jaskier’s mind and he shakes himself roughly, following the elf with purpose. Nothing a good drink can’t solve.

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t expect to see Geralt until morning at least, and though it’s hours later and well past a decent hour for retiring when he finally does encounter the witcher, it still surprises him when he shows up in front of a thoroughly sloshed Jaskier’s vision. 

“Geralt!” he shouts, finally registering the swimmy version of his witcher in front of him “You’re alive!” 

“Mm,” he says, gripping Jaskier by the back of his doublet and essentially holding him upright. When had it gotten so hard to sit up? “And you’re drunk.” 

Jaskier blinks at Geralt, feeling unaccountably fragile. “Where’s yer’ fucking _witch?_ ” he snarls, pushing his finger into Geralt’s firm chest. _Gods,_ but he’s really firm all over isn’t he.

“Where’s Chireadan?” Geralt asks instead of answering, which is typical and also infuriating. 

“Well he’s not _fucking_ a witch I can tell you _that!_ ” Jaskier shouts, swaying backwards as he pushes ineffectually at Geralt. Wow, his grip is _really_ strong. That’s... good to know. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt growls, which is really unfair of him, all things considered, but Jaskier relents anyways, rolling his eyes and leaning back far enough that Geralt has to let go, letting him drop back into the seat he’d been occupying at the tavern before Geralt showed up. 

“He left ages ago,” Jaskier informs Geralt airily, grasping for another sip of his ale only to find the tankard lifted from his grip entirely. Geralt swallows the contents in less than two gulps before he slams the tankard back down on the table, sliding along the bench so he’s pressed up next to Jaskier, squishing him comfortably between the wall and the solid bulk of him. Honestly, if Jaskier were less spinny right now he’d probably be mad, but as it is the contact grounds him. 

“If I tell you something right now, are you going to remember it in the morning?” Geralt asks him suddenly, which seems a silly question to ask, but Jaskier considers it anyways, bobbing his head up and down gently because there’s a strange tightness behind his ears, his teeth are numb, and it’s kind of fun to bop back and forth. 

“Can’t believe you slept with the witch,” he mutters, already losing track of what Geralt has asked him. 

“That’s a no then.” Geralt sighs, standing up and bullying Jaskier into standing with him. 

“What’s a no?” he asks, tuning back in as Geralt drags him away from the table and back to the bar. 

“Do you have a room here?” Geralt shakes him slightly, and Jaskier lets his head bobble the other way, pondering the question. Does he have a room here?

“Yes!” he exclaims, swinging forward with the force of his shout to faceplant into Geralt’s chest. Oh, that’s nice. He has a nice chest. 

“Great.” Geralt growls at him, but he doesn’t push him away, so Jaskier just stays there, face pressed into Geralt’s chest, giggling slightly to himself as Geralt has some kind of conversation with the barkeep over his head.

Moments later they’re moving again, and then Jaskier’s tipped over into a bed, landing on the hard mattress with a bounce and a punched out moan of appreciation. “ _Fuck yes_ ,” he groans, turning over so he can shove his face into the bedding. 

He grumbles good naturedly as Geralt climbs in beside him, using a hand at his hip and shoulder to slide him across the bed and make room. The mattress dips as Geralt lays down, and Jaskier giggles as he slides into the witcher’s side. 

“I’m glad you're not dead,” he mumbles, throwing one arm across Geralt and snuggling into that nice chest of his, glad for the closeness of his friend and relieved that at the end of the day this is where Geralt comes back to. The witch can fuck him as long as Jaskier continues to get this, he thinks, smiling quietly to himself. As long as Geralt keeps coming back to him, it doesn’t matter what else happens. 

Well, there is one thing, a slight ache that’s been needling him since this whole thing began. “Do you really think,” he asks, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can lean over Geralt, “that my singing voice is like—” he pauses, trying to recall the exact words that Geralt had used, “ordering a pie and finding it has no filling?” he finishes, growling in his best imitation of the witcher's voice. 

Geralt snorts, and pushes him back down with one large palm against his forehead, and Jaskier falls back to the bed laughing too, though he isn’t really sure why. 

“No, and I owe you an apology for that, though I might wait until you’re more likely to remember it.”

“Mmm,” Jaskier agrees, already turning to hide his cold nose in Geralt’s side. 

“I’m sorry you got hurt as well, that wasn’t my intention. I didn’t—” Geralt stops, cutting himself off, then turns his head into Jaskier’s hair. He feels the witcher’s breath ruffling it, shivering with the anticipation of _something_ happening.

But all that does happen is Jaskier yawns, and then Geralt sighs, a soft sound, and then sleep comes up to claim him.

* * *

The next morning comes with a headache and stabbing brightness slicing into his eyes. 

“Ah, fuck,” he groans, half-awake and full of regrets already. This feels alarmingly similar to how he’d woken yesterday and he blinks dazedly at his surroundings trying to pin them down. 

_Thank fuck_ , he’s back in the tavern where he’d been staying before the djinn’s attack and that whole business with the witch. Yesterday’s activities filter back into his memories and the reason for his current malaise becomes apparent. _Fuck,_ he hasn’t been this hungover in a long time. 

It feels like he has three hangovers stacked on top of each other, which, given how long he’d been drinking before he encountered Geralt, might well be true. The bed shifts, and he blinks down at the arm around his waist, surprised to trace it back to Geralt’s sleeping face. 

_Well_ , Jaskier thinks, smiling down at him, _looks like he’s gotten that much needed nap after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long one! this chapter alone is 6k which I would apologize for, except... am wordy bastard.
> 
> Special shout-out to my first smut scene y'all this is the most explicit thing I have ever written and i'm weirdly proud of it???? 
> 
> also Even More Special shout-out to ghostinthelibrary for beta-ing this for me, I owe you my soul <3
> 
> Anyways! Kudos/Comments etc make me happy! 
> 
> Also, sorry, once more, about not sticking to the timeline, I just realized I have a christmas party to virtually host for my students on tuesday, so I won't have time to post when i usually do so Happy Early Christmas, I hope this makes your sunday/monday better! (also we're halfway through!)


	4. Unfortunately,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier meets a witcher, loses a witcher, and experiences a Sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! it's actually Tuesday this time, and also my birthday! Woohoo! so happy [redacted] birthday to me, and happy birthday to you, i hope you like this chapter!

_iv._

Everyone knows about the different witcher schools. Geralt isn’t called the White Wolf purely because of the alliteration, although yes, Jaskier will take credit for that as well. But there are Viper witchers and Cat witchers and Griffin witchers too, though Jaskier has only ever met wolves for some reason.

Witchers are rare, but they’re not _that_ rare, so there’s honestly still a little part of Jaskier that’s hoping for the day he meets a witcher from every one of the other schools. 

He sets his lute back in its case, scooping up the audience’s coin and sliding it into his purse, counting as he goes. His throat is nicely recovered from their run-in with the Djinn, and although it's been more than a few weeks since then, they're still traveling together. Something about Geralt seems more settled now. It's nice. Jaskier wishes, a little, that it wasn't because of the witch. At least his friend is happy and sleeping well, and not actively avoiding him and the problems he seems to remind Geralt of anymore. If a little part of Jaskier wishes _he_ was the reason Geralt is sleeping better and seems happy, than it least it's only a little part, and easy to set aside.

Jaskier shakes himself out of his maudlin thoughts, tuning back into the matter at hand, namely his coin. Geralt is over in the corner, brooding, as per the usual, but halfway through Jaskier’s set, another witcher had come in and sat down with him. Strange enough on its own, except this was one that Jaskier hadn’t met before. He’s holding out hope it might be a witcher from one of the other schools.

A thrill of excitement runs up his spine, and he gives up on counting, just shoving the remaining coin in the pouch and cinching it shut, taking lute and all back over to where Geralt and the other witcher are drinking ales in matching silence together. 

Melitele _bless_ this man, but he’s absolutely hopeless. “Well I know one of you very well, and one of you not at all,” he declares, sliding into the seat nearest Geralt. “Let’s say we rectify that.” He sticks his hand out to the other witcher, noting with glee the raised, slightly incredulous, eyebrow he gets for his troubles. “Name’s Jaskier, bard by profession, chronicler of the White Wolf by no fair amount of luck and perseverance.” Geralt snorts into his ale, and Jaskier digs an ebow into his side in retaliation, still holding out his other hand for the new witcher to grasp. 

“Bren,” the witcher says, finally grabbing Jaskier’s hand and going along with the quick shake. 

“Well, Bren, what brings you out to this side of Reidburne then?” 

“Got a contract for an endrega worker, nasty brute. Tracked it back to a whole nest of them and thought 'better have help.' Been trying to track down help for about a week now, and what do you know, but I heard the _White Wolf himself_ was in town.” Bren grins widely at Geralt, who rolls his eyes and takes another large sip of his ale, the hopeless bastard. Jaskier gasps, utterly delighted. 

“ _Oh_ , that’s perfect!” he enthuses, already thinking of song titles. “A tale of two witchers besting a whole swarm of endregas will make a great ballad, _ooh_ or maybe a jig, something fast for sure,” he muses, turning to smile at a grumbling Geralt. “What do you think, Geralt?” 

Geralt frowns at him, then frowns at Bren, then shrugs his shoulders. Bren claps his hands together and stands up from the table. “Excellent brother, I’ll meet you in the morning then, should only take a week and we can leave the bard here while we work.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier interjects, smiling placidly at the witcher, “the bard usually comes along. Easier to get the details that way.” 

Bren blinks at Geralt in surprise, which is mildly insulting, then knocks one gloved hand on the table. “Far be it from me to interfere with the mighty White Wolf’s usual routine,” he says, before winking exaggeratedly at Geralt and disappearing into the crowd. 

“So,” Jaskier offers, when a minute or two has passed and Geralt hasn’t said anything, “what school is he from?” 

“What do you mean?” Geralt grunts, still brooding over his beer. 

“I mean, I’ve met at least two other witchers from your school, and you were much nicer about those two, which I can only assume is because they were _from_ your school, so Bren is obviously from another one, but I didn’t get a good look at his medallion, _so_ ,” he raises one hand towards Geralt, a clear invitation to speak, but Geralt doesn’t take him up on it, merely shaking his head again and then standing up from the table. “What, you’re not going to answer me?” Jaskier asks, standing up as well. If he has to annoy Geralt into giving him the answer, he absolutely will, decorum be damned. 

Geralt’s already up the stairs and in the room by the time Jaskier catches up with him. “Come on, now,” he says, spinning around Geralt so he’s stationed directly in front of him. “What harm does it do to tell me what school he hails from?” 

Geralt grunts at him, clearly annoyed by Jaskier’s behavior. His face goes through quite a stunning series of microexpressions, which Jaskier is normally quite talented at reading when they aren’t so fast, and then he sighs.

“He’s a Viper.” He finally offers mulishly, getting ready for bed.

“Was that so hard,” Jaskier laughs, “honestly, Geralt, it’s just curiosity, no need to be so _reticent_ about it.” 

Geralt merely huffs a breath in response, and then slides silently into bed so Jaskier figures that’s that and follows him.

* * *

The next morning dawns bright and tragically early, and Jaskier grumbles all through being dragged out of bed by Geralt and then dressed and then eating the porridge on offer in the tavern and doesn’t really stop grumbling until he’s watching Geralt saddle Roach. The air is still wet with the early morning dew and the slight chill of the morning is peaceful if not slightly bracing. Jaskier tucks his hands under his arms and frets about the humidity’s effect on his lute, worrying about whether or not he’s loosened the strings enough they won’t snap the neck or warp the wood in any lasting way. 

He’s been lucky so far with the lute; despite the natural fragility of the instrument it’s held up to all sorts of mishaps that maybe should have caused more lasting damage. Jaskier might even go so far as to wonder if the lute could be blessed, or carry some hints of elven magic with it, but he also isn’t willing to blindly trust it either. So fretting and taking great pains to ensure its safety are still entirely called for. 

“You’re really bringing the bard along, then?” Bren’s voice carries across the fragile morning air, and a stubborn flash of anger licks up Jaskier’s spine. The disrespect and dismissal is infuriating in its own right, but the way Geralt simply ignores it, casting no more than a slight smile at Jaskier before he looks back to Bren, is more than a little upsetting as well. Not that he needs Geralt to fight his battles for him, but not even a cursory word of kindness for the value Jaskier brings to these ventures? Really?

“You try to stop him,” Geralt says, and Jaskier puffs up like a startled cat, ready to spit acid at either one of them, first one in range. He doesn’t particularly care which of them is going to receive this ire, but before he can gather his thoughts Roach pushes past him, Geralt in the saddle, and Bren turns his own horse to lead the way. Letting uncharitable thoughts about witchers run amok, Jaskier follows after them, worry for his lute forgotten in favor of imagining the ways he can prove his usefulness, fantasizing increasingly fanciful scenarios where he comes to the rescue and saves both of them from impending death only to deliver a cutting blow at the last second as he forces them to apologize lest the endregas eat their faces off. 

It is perhaps more than a little petty, but it keeps Jaskier occupied on the long walk to where Bren had seen the nest, so Jaskier doesn’t particularly care to justify his thoughts to anyone at all. He’s mostly worked it out of his system by now anyways, so as Geralt and Bren make preparations and oil their swords Jaskier is feeling recovered enough to appreciate the sun as it comes out, drying the air up and bringing out the finer details in the scenery around them. He ties his lute to Roach’s bags, not wanting to risk it on the actual hunt, and prepares to follow the both of them, hell or high water or stupid witcher nobility be damned. 

Bren’s standing slightly elevated on a knoll, facing upwind of their current location and squinting into the distance with one hand shading his eyes from the sun. Geralt’s standing next to him, watching the same spot without squinting, and briefly, Jaskier wonders if Geralt has better vision. Is that a wolf school trait or a Geralt trait? He’s about to ask when Bren turns to face him, cocking one hand on his hip jauntily. He’s awfully arrogant for a witcher and Jaskier decides he _hates_ him.

“Last chance to stay safe with the horses, bard.” Bren calls, a cheery sneer on his face. Geralt merely raises an eyebrow at Jaskier, looking far too amused for his own good. 

Jaskier smiles thinly at the viper, determined not to show any fear at all, no matter how dicey it’s likely to get. He never worries about hiding his fear with Geralt, who cares not one whit either way about it, but this man is testing Jaskier’s patience in a very real way, and Jaskier refuses to back down on this. “Lead on,” he says stiffly, gesturing them both forward. 

Geralt turns quickly towards the forest, but not quickly enough that Jaskier misses the smile on his face. He would do well to smile at that, Jaskier thinks spitefully, as if he didn’t also frequently attempt to leave Jaskier behind or keep him in the dark by refusing to offer any real details of a hunt. 

They walk nearly a mile on from where they left the horses before they come close enough to the nest that Jaskier has the chance to observe both witchers turn from slightly taciturn men into silent deadly hunters. 

Geralt, without losing pace, points out a felled tree that will make a suitable vantage point for Jaskier to watch from, out of the way but also with shelter should things go sideways. In all the years of following Geralt, things have rarely ever gotten that bad, but it’s a tried and true method that works for them, no matter what enterprising Vipers have to scoff about it.

Jaskier can just see the clearing from behind the tree trunk, and the glowing pulsating sac at the far end of it. Bren and Geralt exchange a series of silent hand gestures, and then split, taking wide strafing approaches towards the sac.

There’s no movement in the forest besides the two witchers, and Jaskier has to fight the urge to hold his own breath, feeling the suspended tension of halted movement: something unnatural is afoot. Geralt is slowing now, picking his way more carefully as he angles towards the sac, but Bren’s moving faster, less cautiously, and it’s this that damns them both.

Bren steps into the clearing: a twig snaps beneath his foot; the _crack_ of dry wood breaking echoes sickly across the forest.

Jaskier holds his breath but the damage is done: with a ringing shout from the Viper, the clearing explodes into movement, as chitinous bodies erupt out of the soil with horrifying screams of their own. Geralt leaps into the swarming mass of bodies that look fit to swallow Bren whole with a hearty cry, and Jaskier, heart in his throat, can do nothing but watch the both of them, holding what little ground they can gain as it churns beneath them. Primal fear rips through Jaskier and he finds himself panting with terror, shaking against the warring urges to run far away and curl up where he is and hide. 

The endregas are horrifying to look at, overgrown scorpions with reddish-brown chitin armor that bounces the witcher’s swords back when they land an unlucky blow. Jaskier watches Bren spin with the force of his returned volley, and then duck under a pincer to stab the belly of one of the smaller endregas. It hisses, a drawn out sound of animalistic anguish, and black blood gushes out as Bren rips his sword back out of the dying body. Jaskier gags, turning away to hide his face in his shoulder, but the fear takes over and he has to look back, trying to make enough sense of the chaos to find Geralt.

The two witchers are split apart still, though they’re rapidly closing in on each other, clearly a strategic move to have at least one avenue safe from endrega attacks. Geralt swings his sword in a two-handed arc over his head, slicing clean through the head and thorax of the screaming endrega standing between him and Bren. Jaskier gasps, stunned by the display of strength. He has to physically shove his hand over his own mouth to stop from screaming out and drawing attention to his position when Geralt has to roll out of the way of an endrega stinger slamming through the air over his head. 

Geralt’s rolling dive brings him close enough to Bren to be able to stand back to back with the taller witcher, and the hissing swarm of endregas roils in constrained rage as they skitter over each other, spinning in closer and closer to the witchers. Geralt says something to Bren, the distance too far for Jaskier to hear it, and then for three horrifying seconds they hold fast against the encroaching swarm inching closer to their position. Jaskier, on his tiptoes trying to lean over the tree, heart in his throat and a desperate cry on his lips, swallows just in time for them both to burst into action. 

Bren ducks low under Geralt’s arm, making a complicated sign with his hands that has a delicate golden bubble expanding around both of them, just coming in behind the sweeping arc of Geralt’s own strange gesture, ahead of which a steady stream of fire is sweeping in a circle, sending the hissing endregas skittering away from them, screaming and panicked. The world brightens horribly, and Jaskier looks away again, mingled excitement and fear clogging his throat.

The attack hasn’t been entirely successful; when Jaskier can stand to look again, there’re still several of the horrible creatures surrounding them, some even closer than before. One launches a stinger at the golden bubble still holding, and it bounces back, rebuffed. Bren holds the shield for a second more, then drops it, and both witchers launch themselves at the remaining creatures. Geralt’s fire hadn’t killed more than three or four of the horrible little things, but it had given them more space to fight in. 

They’re making the most of it now, hacking through the impromptu battlefield like rampaging butchers. The clearing’s a mess— there are chitinous carcassess strewn about and two of them are still smouldering. The rest is just a mess of gore and blood. There’s a terrible smell rising too, now that Jaskier’s panic has abated enough for him to notice, burning chitin maybe, though Jaskier, with all his words, feels hard-pressed to describe it. 

The battle itself is slowing now, fewer endregas launching themselves at Geralt and Bren, though the witchers are quick as ever; there’s a savage beauty to the way they fight, a kind of hard-won grace that must come from years spent in practice and use. Despite never having met before, they read each other as easy as breathing and they fight around each other in a way that makes Jaksier ache. Just knowing that he’ll never be able to properly render it, unable to share it with the world the way he sees it. 

Geralt slices through the abdomen of the last endgrega, sticking it to the ground for half a moment before he yanks his sword back out of its middle. Bren laughs, a loud sound in the sudden hush of the clearing, devoid of movement now that there are no more monsters in need of slaying, and claps Geralt heartily on the shoulder. There’s another moment of stillness, and Jaskier relaxes, letting out a breath heavy with having been held for so long. 

Too soon.

The sac, glowing still and having been ignored while the main battle was fought, shudders, a single warning before it erupts, a booming shockwave which even knocks Jaskier down, sending him scuttling for cover beneath the felled log he’s been hiding behind. A truly awful roar rips through the clearing, a sound which sends ice sheeting down Jaskier’s spine and then a shout, a heavy thud, and another terrifying roar follow it. It’s undulating and hoarse: terrible for the fear it inspires and for the rasping wrongness of it. 

Fear grips Jaskier tight, keeping him hostage beneath the log as the terrible battle back in the clearing rages on. Sounds filter into Jaskier’s hearing, too tangled up in his panic to separate them out: the scraping clang of steel on chitin, hoarse shouts and grunts of pain, more chittering roars, the whoosh of flame and a series of horrible wet pops; it all comes too fast and close together and Jaskier has no idea what’s happening in the clearing behind him, only that it’s awful in scope and intensity. 

Another boom echoes through the clearing, loud and forceful enough to temporarily turn the world upside down; earth rains down, a sudden shower of debris which misses Jaskier only because of the tree he’s cowering behind. Jaskier ears ring with the sudden cessation of sound and stimulus where before it had been chaos so it takes several seconds too long before Jaskier realizes that the silence isn’t a _good thing_.

Worry for Geralt shoots a spike of adrenaline through his heart and he’s up and crashing down the slight incline to the heart of the impromptu battleground almost before he registers the sudden movement. 

He draws up short just at the edge of the worst of it; the smell cuts through the visual mess of the clearing, too many details at once that he can’t sort out into separate bodies. Chitin and endrega entrails, blood and viscera and turned over earth; Jaskier gags, horrified, but holds it back desperately, staring at the fetid mass of what must have been the sac’s remains. They’re gray and putrid and oozing around the remnants of a half-developed mess of random engrega parts.

Jaskier can just make out a partially developed head covered in a viscous, seeping goo that stinks like rotting meat, and spoiled milk, and blood, and shit, and all manner of horrid things that Jaskier never wants to smell again. 

He sticks his nose in his elbow, eyes frantically scanning the battlefield even as the stench makes them water; the remnants of unnatural heat from the witchers magical attempts to slay the beasts make the horizon hazy, an indistinct mirage effect that makes it even harder for Jaskier to pinpoint any particulates amongst the mass of gray and red and black: his breath is coming too fast, his chest constricting against the strange panic that has him convinced Geralt is dead (no _not again_ , they’ve been here before it _can’t be true_ —) 

There: Jaskier’s eyes catch on a flash of silver and he stumbles over the mess of dead flesh and discarded bodies before he can second guess himself. He falls to his knees next to the sword, casting his eyes frantically around to pinpoint the witcher that must be close by— _Geralt_ must be close by.

The strange hazy cast to the battlefield has less to do at this point with the heat, (though it’s still far too hot for Jaskier to be comfortable; sweat is sliding down his back even from just kneeling here) and more to do with the sheen of tears blurring his vision as he finally spots the outstretched hand reaching for the sword. Jaskier’s movements are stilted, like someone else is reaching out with his arms to shove the endrega carcass off the collapsed form of his best friend.

“Geralt?” he almost can’t bear to say it, terrified by the stillness of the body he’s uncovering. The endrega finally slips off of Geralt with a sick splat, landing somewhere out of sight and out of mind as Jaskier finally has the space to really look at the witcher’s body. Witchers have slow pulses, he thinks, a half remembered fact from nearly a lifetime ago by now, the only thing that stops his hand from shaking as he reaches out two fingers to place against the witcher's neck. He’s covered head to toe in blood and guts and viscera; Jaskier’s fingers slip several times through the ichor as he tries to hold steady enough to feel a pulse.

At the same time he realizes that even accounting for how slow a witcher's pulse is, this one is certainly _dead_ , he registers the lack of long white hair. It’s Bren, dead under his hands, not Geralt. 

The immediate rush of loose-limbed relief that slithers through his body is followed by an intense wave of reflexive guilt, and he gives into the churning in his gut, turning away from the Viper’s corpse in front of him to expel the morning’s meagre porridge from his stomach. He crawls away from the corpse and the mess, still heaving, to try and find Geralt. 

It only takes a minute, Geralt revealing himself as three endgregas corpses heave straight up into the air, pushed back by a growling Geralt and one of his witcher’s signs. Jaskier knows the names, but right now the knowledge won’t come to him, and he nearly collapses when Geralt finally stands up, scanning the corpse-strewn clearing in slow sweeps. He’s absolutely covered in monster guts, the standard post-battle Geralt, minus the palpable aura of wild-eyed concern currently wafting off of him. 

Jaskier staggers to his feet, pulling himself back together with no small amount of willpower and a hearty dose of _fuck-this_. 

“Geralt!” he shouts, relieved when Geralt finally casts that intense golden gaze on him. It feels like Jaskier blinks and then suddenly Geralt is there, broad hands clapped tight to either shoulder, basically holding him steady as his legs shake like this was his first run-in with a monster. He’ll feel vaguely shameful about the naked fear later: right now his priority is in not falling over now that he has visual confirmation Geralt is still alive. 

“Thank the gods,” he utters weakly, definitely woozy now with the emotional upheaval of the last several moments. 

“Where’s Bren?” Geralt asks, ever with the priorities, and Jaskier gestures weakly over his shoulder at the poor sod’s cooling body, unaccountably exhausted. 

Geralt releases him, and Jaskier takes the chance to stumble away from the disgusting pile of bodies he’s ankle-deep in, heading back for the tree, or more preferably, where they’d left the horse. Ah, _fuck_ , he thinks, stumbling slightly over the legs of another endrega corpse, horse-s, _plura_ l. That will... have to be dealt with, he supposes. 

It takes far too long to make his way back to the felled tree, and he nearly falls into it himself, releasing a shaky sigh as he brings a quivering hand up to cover his eyes. 

_Gods_ , but what a day it has been. 

Jaskier mostly stays out of the way as Geralt cleans up, piling all the endrega carcassess together in a mound over the remains of the exploding sac and then casting igni (right, _now_ Jaskier can remember their names) to burn the whole stinking pile of them. It reeks to the high heavens, but it’s indisputably better than leaving the corpses for nekkers or ghouls to discover. 

He takes significantly more care with Bren’s body. 

Jaskier is recovered enough to help with this, collecting wood for the rudimentary pyre, and carefully stacking it under Geralt’s direction, in some pattern known only to the witcher. It requires both of them to heave his body into place, and Geralt only takes enough time to gently untangle his medallion from around his neck and pocket it before he steps back and casts igni again. 

This time they both hold silent vigil until it’s done. 

The solemnity of the day doesn’t wear off, and it’s well-past dark by the time they return to where Roach and Bren’s stallion are tied. Jaskier, having collected Bren’s swords before they left, gently slides them into the horse’s tack, unwilling to break the silence between them with questions. There will be time for those later, when they’re both not so raw from the unexpected turn their day has taken. 

They camp right there, unwilling to go further, though neither one of them moves to make a fire or prepare any food. Sleep seems most important and they lay their bedrolls out in matching silence. 

Sleep doesn’t come easily to Jaskier, but when it finally takes him, thankfully, it's deep and dreamless.

* * *

The next day dawns with problems and questions and slightly more distance from yesterday’s bloodbath. 

“What are we going to do about the horse?” Jaskier asks, staring at the black stallion, grazing at the base of his tree, unconcerned. 

“We could sell it.” Geralt offers, similarly unconcerned, and Jaskier sighs, staring at the mess of stuff still attached to the horse. For all that witchers lead an itinerant life, there’s a surprising amount of material possessions that go into that, and staring down the reality of that is weirdly sobering and uncomfortable. 

“What about his swords? His medallion?” Jaskier opens one of the saddle bags at random, not surprised in the least to discover a cache of potions. “What about these?” he moans, holding one of the vials up to the light. Geralt merely shrugs, coming close enough to grab the vial from Jaskier and uncorking it to take a quick sniff. 

“Vipers are known for better alchemy,” he offers, sliding the vial in alongside his own. “No sense in not keeping those at least.” It’s practical, and efficient and makes a terrible sort of sense even as it causes a horrid wave of hopelessness to well in Jaskier’s chest. Would this be Geralt’s end too? Possessions divided by whomever had the misfortune of bearing witness to his death, nothing but a medallion to remember him by?

“Is this all that’s to come of him, then?” Jaskier asks, doing a poor job of keeping the hopelessness from his voice. 

Geralt stops repossessing the potions long enough to cast a slow questioning look at Jaskier, then sighs deeply, resuming his motions. “We’ll send the medallion back to Gorthur Gvead. Someone will know to mourn him there.” 

Jaskier makes an unhappy noise in response, not satisfied with the answer, though he knows it’s the only one. 

“It’s not all that bleak,” Geralt says, closing up his potions bag and slowly going through Bren’s other bags, taking what seems useful and leaving the rest behind. “At least they’ll know the _how_ for him. Not all witchers even get that much.”

His indignant fury seems a tiny blip in the ocean of disregard that witchers face daily, but Jaskier vows to make something of it. He’ll write a song for Bren after all, though it won’t be a jig or a ballad. Every man deserves to be remembered.

Every man deserves a eulogy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Bren, pour one out for the homies. I genuinely felt bad about killing him I'm not gonna lie. 
> 
> As ever, kudos/comments/etc. always appreciated! I really hope you liked this chapter!


	5. we don't have that kind of time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier runs, Yennefer pushes him into a closet, and Geralt... yeah you guessed it, that bitch almost dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last one before the switch folks! I hope you enjoy it! and a very happy 2021 to you all!

They get to Novigrad early enough in the summer it’s still a pleasant place to spend an afternoon, but by evening, when the heat is trapped in the narrow roads, it’s best to just not be out at all. That’s fine by Jaskier. He’s not so much a fan of this city anymore, not since the Eternal Flame turned it into a hunting ground for anyone they consider _other_ enough, though usually Jaskier can pass by unharmed... until he opens his mouth that is. 

This time they really are just passing through, intent on skirting the main thoroughfare as much as possible as they swing down in a wide arc to try and cover more of the Southern Kingdoms, since contracts have been drying up in the North as of late. Geralt has been getting awfully maudlin about it, convinced it spells the end of Witchering as a whole, though Jaskier doesn’t think that’s likely. 

There will always be monsters, though they may look different, and certainly, always, there will exist a need for someone the noblesse considers _expendabl_ e enough they can afford the price it takes to have them deal with their various problems. 

Geralt would call him a cynic were he to voice these thoughts out loud, and in fact he had, the first time they’d had this particular conversation. Jaskier’s just about done with going over it in endless circles, though every new contract that goes bust seems to set the witcher off on a new round of philosophizing about it anyways. 

This one is clearly gearing up to go the same way, if Jaskier’s nearly twenty years of traveling with Geralt are any indication of expertise, so he cuts it off at the head, directing Geralt’s attention instead to the noticeboard, where surely there will be a contract that turns out to be an _actual_ _monster_ , and not just a lone doppler, bothering no one, or a hirrika, simply in search of food, or any of the other myriad of ways their contracts as of late have eroded Geralt’s good faith in the people of the continent and proved Jaskier’s lack of it right. 

People are bastard coated bastards, and no, _Geralt_ , it had nothing to do with the witch. The witch in question had “run into them” in a tavern on the outskirts of the city last night, then spent the evening making doe eyes at Geralt while Jaskier seethed and played and did his utmost to eavesdrop because knowing Geralt and that sexy temptress, they’re about to become embroiled in something seriously beyond their normal pay rates. 

The witch spells trouble, and Jaskier’s sick of it. She flounces into their lives, gets Geralt to go all stupidly soft and fluttery around her, then vanishes, leaving behind heaps of trouble and a more surly witcher than had been there before. It’s hell on Jaskier’s purse, is what it is.

Speaking of— “Oh please, for the love of Melitele _herself_ ,” he mutters, spying the raven-haired witch on her way towards them again. He carefully slides around Geralt, planting himself against the board and cutting off Geralt’s line of vision back down the main road, hoping to get them moving off on the next contract before the witch catches up. She’s never bothered tracking Geralt down the day after before, content to ruin their night and leave the next morning although her continued presence in this godsforsaken town does explain why Geralt had been so weird about his suggestion they leave this morning. 

Geralt pulls a paper notice off the board finally, but, like he's got a sixth sense for fucking insane witches, his head’s coming up in the wrong damned direction. Jaskier inhales deeply; suddenly, absolutely certain that Yennefer’s right behind him. 

“She’s right behind me, isn’t she,” he says flatly, opening his eyes just in time to meet Geralt’s flat gaze before the witch in question shoves him forward with five pointy nails dug into the center of his back. 

“Yennefer,” Geralt says lowly, more naked emotion on his face than he usually displays even around Jaskier, which burns, just a little. 

“No need to be so pushy,” Jaskier snipes, feeling terribly maligned already, knowing it’s about to get worse. They both ignore him, sharing a deeply tragic look, full of things unsaid which would be hilariously heartwarming and touching if Jaskier were in any other mood but as it is it just makes him want to shake them both.

It’s Yennefer, finally, who breaks the silence, ripping the notice from Geralt’s hands.

“I’ve got a better job for you, witcher,” she says, reading the notice and then raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at Geralt, acting for all the world as if Jaskier isn’t standing right next to them. Honestly, this is the most annoying part of them interacting with each other. Nine times out of ten, they both get so absorbed in their deep stares and brooding silences they forget Jaskier is there entirely, unless it’s to snipe at him when he tries to interject to move things along.

Well, not today! No way, no how. Today is going to be a Jaskier day. Let Geralt run off with the sorceress. Jaskier will find something better to do. 

“Toodles!” he announces bitterly, to the notice of absolutely neither of them, and he leaves in a foul mood, cursing them both the entire way.

* * *

Novigrad’s a big city. It takes very little time at all for Jaskier to get slightly lost in the maze of back allies and side-roads, but, eventually, following his nose brings him to a little outdoors market. 

He fritters the day away, busking in the streets and lazing about in turns, ignoring the slow steady growth of uneasiness in his gut; an instinctual reaction to knowing that Geralt is involved in some scheme of Yennefer’s without Jaskier there to keep an eye on him. 

He’s doing his best to ignore it, knowing rationally that at this point there’s nothing he can do about it, when who should come find him but the witch herself. 

“Oh fuck, it’s you.” He says calmly, standing up to find her watching him count his coin as he puts his lute away after another hour of successful busking. 

“Mind your tone, bard,” she drawls, looking casually disinterested in his very existence, “Or I’ll mind it for you.” Not her best threat. 

He frowns, assessing her, finally taking stock of her appearance. Her dress has a tear in it, and there are flecks of drying blood on her bare arms— clearly a hasty attempt at cleaning the worst of it has occurred, but it's obvious she’s been in a fight, and recently. 

“Where’s Geralt?” he asks, the cold stone of dread in his belly solidifying with every second it takes her to answer him.

“Where’s your manners?” she volleys back at him, maddeningly unhurried.

“Gone with the witcher, I should think. What did you do to Geralt?”

“No need to be so _testy_. He’s perfectly fine.”

“Then _where is he_.” Jaskier practically growls, though he’s not really got the voice for it the way Geralt does.

“Alright, so he’s in a bit of a bind. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t my _literal_ last option, but as it turns out I need a distraction.”

“ _A distraction!_ ” Jaskier cries, convinced that she’s already killed Geralt or _worse_ , gotten him imprisoned or stoned or turned into an eel or a toad or whatever loathsome things witches do when they're as evil as they are sexy.

“Yes,” she declares flatly, raising one hand to create a portal just down the road from them. “A distraction,” and then she unceremoniously shoves Jaskier through it.

“Whoa— Hey! This is _completely_!—” he cuts off his own words, turning in time to catch his lute case as she thrusts it into his hands “ _Watch the lute!_ ” he cries, horrified with her rough treatment of such a delicate instrument. 

She steps through the portal after him, already rolling her eyes, which is both unfair and hurtful, and Jaskier finally has the wherewithal to take stock of where she's brought him. They appear to be in a dungeon, and for one brief moment Jaskier wonders if this is what being kidnapped feels like. 

Lightning quick, Yennefer reaches out and smacks him, sending him jumping with the indignity of her sudden attack. “ _Oi_! What gives?” he seethes, rubbing his arm where her smack still stings. 

“If I was kidnapping you, you would know,” she hisses, shoving him again, this time a clear attempt to bully him into moving out of the main hallway they’re standing in. 

“Did you just read my mind?” he asks, highly offended, as he stumbles along in the direction she’s shoving him because it’s easier, and also because he still feels slightly queasy from the portal. 

“If you could think just slightly quieter—” she hisses, furious at him as she finally manages to bully him into a small closet. She shoves herself in after him so they’re awkwardly pressed together shoulder to hip, only Jaskier’s lute case preserving their modesty. Yennefer snaps her fingers quickly, just in front of his face, and Jaskier’s hearing dims, a sensation not unlike stuffing his ears with cotton taking over. 

He hadn’t been able to take stock of much of their surroundings before one (or two if you counted the darkness and lack of scenery) of his senses were taken from him, but even so, their world narrows down until it’s just the two of them, mingling breaths and space and horrible moods as they both try to awkwardly hold some semblance of decency between themselves. 

Yennefer glares at him, her furious purple gaze almost enough to stop his own anger, except— “If you got Geralt killed I will write the nastiest song cycle all about you and your kind, witch, I _swear it_.” As far as threats go it probably isn’t the worst she’s ever heard, but it is the direst Jaskier can offer, and something in her face softens regardless.

“I said he’s not dead, bard,” she offers, pressing her head into the door she’d snapped closed behind them. “He’s just indisposed right now until we can get to him.” 

“Right!” Jaskier hisses back, tired of her non-answers, “And what exactly does _indisposed_ mean in this context?” She flaps an irate hand at his face, the tips of her fingers grazing uncomfortably past his nose in the darkness as she shushes him, and he snarls, reaching out to capture the offending limb in his own grip, yanking her arm down sharply. “Stop that!” he cries, loud as he dares, still casting his voice low because while he may hate her, he also isn’t _stupid_. “I want ans- _ack_!” he cuts himself off with a pained cry as she uses his own grip on her hand to flip them around, shoving him roughly against the wall with his arm yanked up uncomfortably high behind his back. 

“Touch me again, bard,” she hisses, putting the slightest bit more pressure against his wrist. He whimpers, pain and fear for his playing arm rattling around his conscious thoughts like a sounding bell, “and I can promise you’ll regret it.”

“I regret it already,” he mutters, thunking his head against the stone wall as she finally releases him. He brings his arm around to cradle it against his chest, glad that in all the ruckus she hasn’t crushed his lute at least. “You owe me more answers than this, we’ve time now and I’m _worried,_ ” he grumbles, fighting to keep the petulance out of his voice. He’s only marginally successful, but honestly it might have helped him, because Yennefer sighs, still pressing her ear against the door. 

“He’s about to be executed, if you must know. I have a plan to save him, so he _won’t be_ , but it’s conditional on you just listening and doing as I say.” It takes a real and daunting amount of effort to not despair right then and there, knowing that in the mere hours Geralt has been out of his sight the witch has gotten him in enough trouble that he’s about to be _put to death_ in _Novigrad_ of all places. 

“ _What_?” he hisses, leaning forward to put his ear against the door as well, “did you sell him to the Eternal Flame _yourself_?” 

“For all the gods' sake, would you shut up already!?” Spitefully she reaches out and tweaks his shin, and he flinches, kicking her reflexively. She draws back one hand, curled up like she’s going to launch a fireball at his face, and only the finger of reproach he holds up to stop her saves his life. She drops her hand, rolling her eyes at him and muttering invectives against his person under her breath. He manfully ignores her insults, content for now to just exist in the tiny closet with her until she lets them out.

Finally, she must hear what she’s been waiting for because she slips the door open, slithering out with a silent glare and a gesture for him to follow after. 

He creeps after her down the hallway, brimming with an electric curiosity and thundering fear as he clutches his lute against his chest to muffle the sound of the creaking case. At the end of the hallway, Yennefer pulls open another door, but this time Jaskier’s fast enough to walk in behind her, rather than get shoved. 

This new room is clearly an armory; rows of disembodied knights' armor are hanging about in disparate states of repair and one whole wall is devoted to various swords and daggers. Jaskier spots a mace stacked up in the corner, and draws helplessly closer to it, horrified to discover it still has _blood_ on it. _Fuck_. 

“Where the _fuck_ have you dragged us now?” he asks, reaching out, still slightly horror-stricken, to touch the weapon. 

Before he can make contact, Yennefer slaps his hand away, moving towards the armor pieces as she talks. “Stay focused, bard. We’ve a goal to accomplish here.” 

“Speaking of,” he says, turning to follow her to the piles of shiny metal she’s investigating. “I think it’s about time you fill me in on the particulars of this little venture here.” 

Yennefer picks up a leather chest-piece, holds it up to Jaskier’s shoulders and then drops it, casting through the piles in search of another one. “You’re broader than you look, bard,” she muses instead of answering his question.

“That’s by design,” Jaskier offers drolly, then snatches the next uniform piece she holds up to him, sick of her deflections. “Answers, Yennefer. Or I walk away right now.” 

“What, and risk Geralt for your _pride_?” she asks him hotly. 

Frustration makes Jaskier want to scream but he holds it in. “Answers. _Now,_ ” he growls, channeling his very best Geralt impression.

“There’s only one way to save your witcher, and it’s a bit more complicated than your foppish sensibilities can handle, so _excuse me_ ,” she says nastily, “for wanting to just _crack on_ with it, instead of explaining every step of the way.” 

“ _What’s the way_!?” Jaskier practically roars, then nearly shits himself in reflexive fear as something outside the room crashes and Yennefer launches herself at him, clapping one hand over his mouth even as the other comes up, sparking with magic aimed at the door. A guard bursts through the entrance not half a second later, and has enough time to make eye contact with Jaskier over Yennefer’s head before he pulls up short, grasping frantically at his throat as he drops instantly to his knees. 

He falls completely over with a wet sounding gurgle, and Jaskier gasps in matching shock as Yennefer finally releases his mouth. 

“Convenient,” she remarks, already stripping the hapless guard of his livery.

“Oh for _fuck’s sake_.” Jaskier moans, setting his lute down on the table to help her. “Can’t a man keep his dignity?” he asks, even as he strips the boots off the luckless gaurd.

“He’s about your size, and you’re about to be wearing this uniform,” she says, yanking the helmet off the unconscious guard and tossing it underhand to Jaskier, who fumbles it before finally catching it in his hands. His reflection in the shiny visor looks far too old for these kinds of shenanigans. "So no, a man _can't._ " 

“This had better work,” he mutters lowly, jamming the helmet over his head.

* * *

Jaskier still doesn’t have much faith in this plan, insofar as it can be called a plan. Yennefer had dressed him up in the guard’s livery then sent him off with nothing more than a muttered, “You’ll recognize the signal; make a scene.” Which, while it sounded good in theory, in practice Jaskier had _not a fucking clue_ what it meant. Attempting to blend in, and following Yennefer's _extremely fucking vague_ directions, he’d followed a line of similarly dressed men on a quick-pace march out of the dungeon, that had luckily taken him to the gallows. 

He is, unfortunately, not in a very advantageous position. He can see the platform, and the executioner, but he isn’t close enough to intervene, which seems a massive oversight on Yennefer’s part. Anxious hornets are tying knots in Jaskier’s nerves, and he has to stand stiff-backed in line and pretend to be one of the nameless Knights of the Eternal Flame. He’s done spywork before, but Dijsktra didn’t typically trust him well enough to come up with his own gameplans. This is uncomfortable territory. 

The sun beats down and has him sweating in the stifling getup and he wonders, again, what the fucking signal might be. If Geralt and Jaskier both make it out of this alive, he will make it his mission in life to keep the witcher as far away from that purple-eyed menace as possible at all times.

He’s keenly aware that this whole debacle is her fault entirely. 

His sour thoughts almost drown out the sound of the prisoners approaching. It’s only the rhythmic ceremonial actions of the guard next to him that alert him in the end, and he’s sure he must stand out like a sore thumb, constantly a stuttering half-step behind the other knights around him. They fall back into stillness as the prisoners pass through the corridor they form leading to their deaths, and Jaskier feels sick with worry as he finally spots Geralt in the line. 

There are maybe seven men headed to their deaths today in Novigrad’s centersquare, but only Geralt holds his head high still, despite the bloodied nose and obvious limp. He looks rough, wan in a way he shouldn’t be unless they’d poisoned him. Perhaps they have some magic designed to hold witchers. Sickness at the idea that they might have done this before steals Jaskier’s next breath, and he coughs in surprise at it, batting away the concerned hand of the guard next to him. 

“Alright, then?” the guard asks, and Jaskier nods frantically, afraid to speak lest he give the game away. Thankfully, the guard turns back to his duty and Jaskier can exhale, watching the prisoner’s slow progress to their deaths. 

They’re chained to each other by the ankles, and as they approach the stairs a guard kneels down to unclasp each prisoner, handing them off to another guard that hauls them up to the stage. Ah, _fuck_ , how easy it would have been if Yennefer had planted him there! 

Instead he has to watch, anxiously, heart in his throat, as the guard unlocks Geralt’s ankle, and Geralt lets himself be hauled up the steps. _Where is the signal?_

The priest begins reading the prisoners' list of crimes, but Jaskier’s only half-listening, frantically scanning the crowd for a flash of violet, or magic, or any likely sign at all.

The executioner drops the hoods on his victims, down the line at a tortuous pace: it’s moving too fast, and still no signal comes. Geralt’s amber eyes disappear behind the burlap sack, and Jaskier twitches reflexively, grinding his teeth against the horrid anticipation in his gut. The priest drones on, proselytizing even as he condemns these non-believers and the crowd’s eating it up, frothing at the bit for the promised violence. It makes Jaskier sick, but he keeps his eyes desperately peeled, hoping hysterically that the signal will appear. 

The executioner puts the rope around the first prisoner’s neck, and Jaskier’s breath catches, a total cessation of movement as his lungs suddenly go on strike. The guard next to him claps him on the shoulder, startling his chest back into moving, and he gasps quietly, hoping his behavior isn’t enough to single him out. When he turns back to the stage the rope is already around Geralt’s neck, and the executioner has taken his position by the lever. _Shit_. What the fuck is _Jaskier_ supposed to do? He’s just a fucking _bard_! 

Across from him a tiny glimmer of color catches his gaze, and Yennefer holds up three fingers in a countdown, still trailing the shower of sparks that had alerted him to her position. 

Jaskier’s grip tightens on the sword at his belt, a half-formed crazy idea building in his chest, and Yennefer puts down a finger. 

_Fuck it_. This is going to suck. Yennefer disappears when her countdown hits zero and Jaskier pushes the guard to his left, then turns around and cold-cocks the man behind him. He goes down like a sack of flour and the flighty crowd roars in outrage, rushing forward in a single block that takes the guards by surprise.

Chaos erupts around Jaskier as the crowd, unsure of what’s happening, defaults to doling out the violence they’d just been braying to see, and the guards, unprepared, try to push back and control the frenzied mob. Jaskier shimmies out of the thick of it, desperately pushing forward to catch sight of the gallows: The priest is screaming invectives, a buzzing drone almost entirely drowned in the screaming of the riot that Jaskier has just set off, but Jaskier only has eyes for the empty absence where Geralt should have been, but suddenly _isn’t_. 

The executioner had his hand on the lever: for a horrifying moment Jaskier thinks he’s too late— that Geralt even now is choking on the end of the hangman’s noose; he stumbles a horrid step forward, desperate to see the bottom half of the stage— _was the trap door open, had Yennefer gotten him_ — 

A body slams sideways into him and Jaskier goes crashing to the ground before he can be certain either way as he fights off his sudden attacker, ripping the stupid helmet off as he squirms out of the man’s grip. He throws a wild punch and gets his assailant to stumble back, freeing enough space that he can start running away. 

Knowing when to retreat is the better part of valor, or however that saying goes. Geralt’s alive. He has to be; where else would Yennefer have gone when she disappeared like that if not to snatch Geralt from the jaws of certain death?

Jaskier crashes through the narrow streets of Novigrad, continuing his mad-cap pace though he’s certain no one is chasing him. He sheds bits of the armor as he goes, so that by the time he comes to a stop on shaking legs he’s divested any clothes not originally his own and simply looks like a mad, luteless bard. It’s nearly three tries before Jaskier’s hands are steady enough to unwind the ribbon that Yennefer had given him from his wrist. 

She’d said she’d be able to track him with it, and he rubs the tiny fraying edges anxiously, unsure how long she’d claimed it would take. Has it been long enough? Is it taking this long because she’s failed, and the executioner had jumped the queue and killed Geralt before she got there? A tiny rational part of Jaskier’s brain insists that none of the other prisoners had been gone from the stage, that if the Executioner had pulled the lever they all would have hung at the same time, but that voice is rapidly being drowned out by the spiralling loop of images detailing exactly what a hanged witcher might look like that are swirling around Jaskier’s brain. 

He’s well and truly worked himself up into a panic, braced against the corner of two buildings he’s shoved himself into, when a sudden _pop!_ announces Yennefer’s presence in front of him. 

“Bollocks,” he hears distantly, but the world is going fuzzy around the edges, spots appearing in his vision. “Oh, _no you don’t_ ,” he hears and then a tiny hand claps against his cheek and he splutters, coming up out of the panic as indignation takes its place. 

“What the _fuck_ , Yennefer!” he cries, shaking his head to clear his vision, looking around her for Geralt. 

“Come on. This is the last portal I’m making today so just—” she cuts off panting, and he has a chance to take stock of her appearance, noting the visible strain on her face and the wan complexion to her skin. “Just don’t be a twat, bard,” she huffs, and he lets her push him through another fucking portal. 

He attempts to push through the discomfort but the immediate nausea has him retching on the other side regardless. 

One small comfort: Yennefer’s collapsed on the ground next to him, also retching and he laughs hysterically, feeling lightheaded. 

“Do you even know my name?” he pants out, standing up and pulling her to standing too, because she may be a spiteful hag but he’d been a gentleman once upon a time, and manners don’t disappear as easily as old names do.

“I don’t need to know your name,” she tells him, but she lets him haul her to standing regardless.

“Jaskier,” she adds stiffly, and he laughs again, still giddy with the adrenaline come-down. 

“Where’s Geralt?” 

“In the house,” she says weakly, gesturing to the structure they’ve landed just outside of. “I’d have found you faster if the idiot had just listened to me, but he insisted he come with me to get you so I had to knock him out.” Jaskier turns to stare at her in open mouth shock, and she waves a hand at him unconcerned. “He needed the rest anyways, it’s just... aggressive healing.” _Fuck_ , he hates when she says something funny. 

Jaskier staggers into the house needing to see Geralt with his own eyes before he can even think about resting himself. Thankfully the insides are simple, though certainly luxurious, and finding the massive bed in the living space is not by any means difficult. Geralt’s laid out sideways on the mattress, clearly having been dropped off in a hurry, and Jaskier sets himself the task of straightening the heavy witcher out. 

He doesn’t stir during Jaskier’s ministrations, no doubt due to Yennefer’s magic. He brushes Geralt’s hair out of his face, looking up briefly as Yennefer settles on Geralt’s other side. He meets her eyes over the unconscious body of his best friend, and takes her smirk and turned back as permission to crawl in next to them. They’re all too exhausted for it to feel like anything but a comfort, and Jaskier falls asleep with one hand tucked around Geralt’s wrist, holding tight to his pulse point. It's witcher slow still, only beats a half time measure, but it's steady. _Strong_. Proof that he's okay. They're okay.

* * *

Jaskier wakes up last the next morning, unsurprised to find Yennefer already gone, returned back to her modus operandi of loving and leaving: honestly he admires the game when he divorces it from its effects on Geralt. Geralt’s gone too, but he, at least, is easy to track down. 

“I truly hope this means we’re finally leaving Novigrad,” Jaskier says as he mosies up to where Geralt is brushing Roach; apparently Yennefer had at least seen fit to fetch their supplies for them before she bolted. He’d almost refused to give her the lute for safe-keeping when she’d forced him into the armor back in the guard’s keep—seeing it laid out neatly next to Roach’s tack under the tree unravels the last bit of tension from Jaskier’s belly. 

Geralt grunts, and keeps brushing Roach. _Bollocks_. Apparently Geralt is also back to operating like usual; unfortunate considering the shitshow yesterday had been. 

Jaskier has never let a little silence daunt him; no reason to start now. “Cheer up!” he says, forced brightness as he goes over to the pile of their things to check on his lute, “At least we’re free of the harpy for a little while more.”

“ _Jaskier._ ” Geralt growls disapprovingly, and Jaskier, still leaning over his lute, bites back the instant curl of disappointment rearing in his chest, smiling through closed lips as he gently unclasps the case and makes sure his songbook is still tucked securely behind the main body of his instrument. Some things just... aren’t meant to be, probably, he thinks, rubbing one hand over the cover of his songbook as he wrestles with the sudden ache in his chest.

What can a bard offer a witcher that a mage can’t give to him doubled? What chance does he have when Yennefer has so thoroughly become entwined in Geralt’s life after mere months, when Jaskier had been following him for nineteen years and not made half as much progress? 

Roach nickers behind him, and Jaskier releases the breath in his chest, dispelling the maudlin thoughts with a shake of his head as he repacks his instrument case. They’re going to move on soon, after all, and isn’t it enough that Jaskier gets to stay? Yennefer may have more of the witcher’s heart, but Jaskier has his time. 

That will have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you liked this one! did I have too much fun with the yennskier dynamic? maybe.  
> but in my defense, you don't have all the facts.  
>  _which are?_  
>  I love them. 
> 
> comments fuel me, let me know what you thought! Looking forward to seeing you for the finale next Tuesday!


	6. We only have this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the turns have tabled for our hapless duo! Jaskier writes a song, Geralt terrorizes a local farmer, and this time it's the _bard_ who almost kicks it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! It's queer? I mean, yeah, I wrote it, it's definitely at least a little bit queer haha but also the slow-burn lights a quick-fuse and you get a kiss this chapter. So! weather the angst-storm it's going to be to get there with aplomb, for I offer you a light and soft epilogue at the end of this particular tunnel.

_vi._

It’s not that Jaskier hadn’t known this was going to end poorly for him. He’d seen the writing on the wall the first time Yennefer had swanned into their lives, and, in a weird way, he’d been prepared for this. Unrequited affections were the bread and butter of most of his colleagues, and for every tale of returned love in the canon there were at least three for heartbreak. 

He taps his pen against his notebook, counting the beats in his head as he composes his latest song; an addition, long overdue. Being in love with someone who will never love him back, and worse, watching that someone love another, is the kind of pain that ballads were created for, honestly. 

His mood sours the longer he works on it though, and eventually he sighs, pushing the book aside entirely. He’ll write more when the pain isn’t so fresh, although with Yennefer still circling their lives, who knows when that might be. The fire pops as a shower of sparks shoots upwards, and across from him Geralt raises an eyebrow as Jaskier jumps with the sound. 

They’ve been traveling steadily northward for weeks now, following the odd contract and court appointment. They’re just outside of Barefield, due to arrive tomorrow and start the tedious process of looking for contracts again. 

It’s getting colder, more from their geography than the season turning, but still, it’s enough that Jaskier leans closer to the fire, chasing the warmth to ward off the night's chill. It’s funny how much more Jaskier knows about Witchers now, he thinks, smiling slightly when Geralt turns his head, making the firelight reflect oddly off his eyes; observing the animal shine in low-light that had scared Jaskier the first time he’d seen it. Now it’s a comfort of sorts, knowledge that anything hovering outside of their ring of light is still visible to Geralt, even if Jaskier himself can’t see it. 

There are so many little tidbits like that, little bits of information Jaskier has squirreled away over the years. Witcher knowledge that only he’s privy to; secrets that prove his connection to Geralt, to have been allowed near enough to learn them in the first place. He holds them close like proof maybe, that he hasn’t spent the last twenty-two years of his life following a dream that’ll never happen. He’s done good work for witchers, and for Geralt especially. The Butcher of Blaviken is a moniker that hasn’t been used in two decades at least, and The White Wolf is basically a household name by now. Jaskier himself is highly sought after to play in courts, to teach at Oxenfurt; his name is almost as famous as Geralt’s and you’d hardly hear tell of one of them without mention of the other. 

It’s good. It’s great, even.

It is.

It just isn’t _enough_.

It feels selfish to think that, when he has so much of Geralt's time already. But every day he watches Geralt fall more and more in love with his sorceress and it‘s hard not to wonder... well.

Not to wonder why not _him_. He’s attractive and they’re friends. They spend so much more time together than Geralt does with anyone else; Geralt’s disregard here hurts. It’s not that he expects Geralt to love him, not that he thinks it’s inevitable or owed or anything so draconian as all that. It’s just that his heart aches and he’s so very tired of _wanting_. 

Jaskier sighs, again, stretching his legs out in front of him, wincing at the tightness in his hips and thighs from sitting too still in one position for too long. _Lilit’s tits_ , but he’s getting old, no longer best-suited to go gallivanting around the countryside after Geralt three seasons out of the year. 

He wants some peace and some quiet, and a chance, just one, to lay it all on the line for Geralt. Even if he doesn’t love him that way, they can still be friends and maybe a vacation is just what they need. A chance to unwind. To reconnect. 

Because Jaskier can’t go on like this. Not forever. The song he’s working on now is testament enough to that. It’s either this one last chance or Jaskier has to find some way to let him go. Find some way to convince his heart that this isn’t it. Maybe the Countess will have him back— there’s something romantic about being an illicit lover, and if real love, if true _honest_ love is out of the cards for him, then maybe this is the best he can hope for. 

One last chance, before he resigns himself to his fate.

As Jaskier shifts his aching body to get ready for bed he promises himself he’ll ask. In the next few days, he’ll float the idea by Geralt, see what he thinks. 

After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

* * *

Barefield turns out to be a bust. And then—

Well.

And _then_.

There’s almost something poetic to it, Jaskier thinks, stumbling down the mountain afterwards. A kind of universal justice to the whole thing. Hadn’t he just been wondering how he was going to find the strength to let Geralt go, and here Geralt has cast him aside and done the deed for him. 

_Poetic_. 

* * *

So of course, after everything, this is where it ends. Jaskier is a professional bard, and he’s forty-two years old, and Oxenfurt has been begging him to take up a full-time tenured position anyways. He’ll just— he’ll get the story from the dwarves and do that, then. Problem solved. 

He’d been prepared for this, really he had.

So why is his heart made of stone, and why is his chest shattered glass around it?

* * *

Jaskier, as it turns out, doesn’t make it back to Oxenfurt. Not for a long time.

* * *

Geralt knew immediately that he’d gone too far. But his rage at himself for losing Yennefer was hard to let go of, and perilously easy to redirect. He’d thought he’d find Jaskier with Roach, nursing his hurt pride and he could apologize and be done with it; but he’d found Roach alone at the base of the mountain, no bard in sight.  
  
He’d thought he’d have more time. 

Rumours travel fast: if Geralt has learned one thing with Jaskier by his side, it’s the power of a good story, and despite Geralt’s best wishes, the story of the White Wolf is legend. In the past, it’s not been uncommon to walk into a new town and find they already knew what he’d done in the town they’d just left, a fact that used to make Jaskier positively gleeful every time it happened. “ _Rumour is good for business_!” he’d say, and sing the whole damn cycle if the crowd would let him get away with it.

Now it’s rare to find anyone in such a joyful mood. The war is taking its toll on the people of Lyria, and as Geralt moves through the countryside, he’s glad to note it’s not actually occupied or fallen yet. They’re just afraid.

They have reason to be; Nilfgaard is known for not taking prisoners: common wisdom is it's better to take your own life than chance a Nilfgaardian cell. Geralt stays out of the petty squabbles of men, but Nilfgaard strikes him as being cruel beyond reason, and he dislikes them on principle entirely for that. For raping and pillaging and torturing: acts beyond the mercy of man, and thus undeserving of it. 

He tries to avoid it but... rumours travel fast. 

The farmer that Geralt has pinned against the wall whistles when he exhales, a high pitched fear noise that makes his skin crawl. “Say it again,” he growls, because he can’t have heard that. It has to be false, and he’d acted before he’d thought when the farmer said; “they’re saying it all up the coast I swear, I thought you knew he died, that’s what they said at the tannery, I—” he breaks off in a gurgle as Geralt’s hand slips up to his throat.

“What. Are. They. Saying.” He doesn’t have time for this farmer to be babbling, not when—

“He’s dead, they killed him, Nilfgaard killed the White Wolf’s bard, Dandelion, or no Jas— Jaskier his name was, that’s—” the farmer cuts off with another gurgle, and Geralt drops him reflexively, horrified with himself. 

The farmer scrambles away, screaming for help, and Geralt doesn’t think ( _he can’t think_ ), just gets back on Roach and rides hard and fast away from Lyria, away from something too big to name. 

He can’t be—

Jaskier was—

Half a dozen thoughts take precedence, shouting over each other, drowning anything else out, and it’s not until the water hits his face that Geralt realizes he’s crouched beside a stream, that he’s bent over, that he’s crying. 

_He’d thought he’d have more time._

Witcher’s don’t cry, don’t _feel_. But Geralt watches another tiny doplet land on the back of his hand where it’s braced against the dirt, and that’s proof. 

Jaskier— He can’t think it, rears back from the pain even before he’s finished acknowledging the tears on his skin, and he stands up, trying to find Roach. She’s not wandered far. Is still within his reach but Jaskier—

He stops. Breathes. Reminds himself that it was his own doing that led to this. It’s always been his own doing. Renfri. Essi. Yennefer. All loved and all lost and all of it his doing. 

Jaskier. 

  
Yes, even him too.

* * *

_Here’s a secret that everyone knows: the bard is in love with his witcher_.   
  


_Here’s a lie that no one believes: the witcher doesn’t feel the same_.

* * *

It takes time to track down Yennefer. But he has to know, needs the truth no matter how devastating it might be to hear it. He’ll face her wrath for that much at least. 

She’s furious to see him, then coldly dispassionate when he begs her for help in between apologies. She’ll find the bard for him, whatever his condition, but only if he swears to help her break the djinn-wish no matter the cost. This is twice now he’s agreed to help her without a fixed price— he can’t bring himself to regret either occasion.

* * *

It takes time, too, to find Jaskier. Too much time, where every second slipping away feels like failure, like a lead balloon in his stomach, like salt-water on abraded skin and arachas venom in freshly torn wounds; it’s agony, slow-marching across his nerves, hidden behind the forced calm as he fetches ingredients for Yennefer and sharpens his swords while she casts her magic. 

Geralt is living on a knife’s edge: either Jaskier is— is dead, and Geralt failed him and will have to somehow live on in a world where his friendship spells death and ruination only, or Jaskier is alive, but captured by Nilfgaard, and—how is that all that different? Really? 

Either way this is Geralt’s fault. If he had just stayed with him; or no, if he had never let him follow him out of Posada at all, Jaskier would be fine, would be happy and well-fed and _still alive_. 

Yennefer drops a hand on his shoulder, startling him from his thoughts— he didn’t hear her approach, too caught up in recriminations and the sick-sour weight of Jaskier’s fate hanging on his shoulders. “I’ve got him.” 

* * *

Jaskier wakes up _cold_. 

That’s normal now, as much as anything these days is normal. It’s hard to keep track of the days. Hard to remember where he is, hard to do anything with a broken leg and busted ribs and whatever they’ve done to his head. 

_What have they done to his head_? He traces the errant thought to its source, one shaky hand lifting and _oh—right_ , he thinks, staring at the shiny blood on his fingers, that’s what they’ve done.

His thoughts are slow, spaced out and cut off, twisted fragments slipping over themselves. He stares at the cell door, watching it for movement. That’s where they come from, when they come for him. 

His wrist hurts. He taps at it with his other hand. Still hurts. 

He looks back at the door, which creaks when it opens. It’s creaking now. 

He doesn’t move. He stopped moving a while ago, he thinks, back before they bashed his head in against the floor ( _fuck, right, now he remembered_ ). There are hands lifting him up, and he goes limp, makes it harder on them; makes it easier on himself. 

“Jaskier!” He zones back in to hear his name, because it’s been so long since he’s heard his name he’d almost forgotten he had one. Has it been that long? _What is time anyways_ , he thinks, and then smiles, because he’d smiled the first time he’d said it too, and the remembered feeling takes over him now. 

“Jaskier!” He rolls his head the way the hands are pushing him, content to go along with it. He’s sitting up now, held up by a hand in his shirt and another on his cheek. That’s new. 

New is bad, down here. Jaskier tries to focus, wills his shitty blurred vision to coalesce, but the panic is dull and buried beneath layers of pain. 

“ _Jaskier_!” There’s his name again, and a frantic voice saying it. Jaskier blinks until the person holding him up turns into the spitting image of Geralt, even though that would never happen. _Why wouldn’t that happen_?

“Oh, Geralt!” he says, or thinks he says. The words coming out sound more like, “ _G’ral_ ’” and he loses some important inflection on the execution. He pats the arm holding his shirt up, aiming for a comforting gesture. That’s important, he thinks, comfort is good. 

His shirt is released, and he falls back for half a second before he’s lurching forward, riding the momentum of being tossed over this guy's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He’s done this before too, but this time he doesn't smile, vomiting instead with the sudden change of altitude. _Gross_.

The person holding him squeezes his calf, and that’s kind of nice, and then he doesn’t have any thoughts for a while.

* * *

When he wakes up again he’s warm. _That’s good_ , he decides muzzily, and then falls back asleep. 

* * *

He next wakes up in a bed, and for a moment he doesn’t remember where he is. This wouldn't be so concerning except it’s quite an extended moment actually, and it turns into multiple minutes of not knowing where he is. The sheets are soft, and he’s in clean clothes; he’s been bathed, (which raises some concerning questions he doesn’t plan on asking just yet,) and he’s got bandages wrapped tightly around his broken ribs, (which don’t actually feel that broken anymore,) and even more bandages wrapped tightly around his wrist. 

He lays still while he takes all of this in and then he realizes that he has to pee, and the fear grips him tight again. 

He doesn't know where he is. He hasn’t known since they took him, drugged in a tavern and tortured for information he didn’t have, not anymore. The bandages and change of scenery are as likely to be another subtler from of torture as they are real, and he _doesn’t know where he is_.

He can’t breathe. He scratches at the bandages around his chest, needing them gone: he’s constricted as they push tight against his ribs, somehow tightening even as he yanks against them. He’s so lost to the hysteria he doesn’t recognize he’s not alone until there’re hands on his wrists, pulling them back from his chest, and he looks up into the eyes of his assailant and finds— _Yennefer_?

He shorts out. Every thought in his brain grinds to a sudden halt. His arms lose all their strength and he blinks at the unlikely image before him. “Yennefer?” 

“Back with us then?” she asks, as if that makes sense.

“Us?”

“Mm,” she agrees, rolling her eyes, “astute as ever I see.” She drops his wrists, then sits on the edge of the bed, staring at him placidly. 

He fidgets under her gaze, horribly self-conscious in a way he hasn’t been since his years at the academy. He feels... achey, and small, and frightened, still, though he’s no longer a prisoner it seems. Not if Yennefer is here.

“Geralt thought you were dead.” she says, apropos of nothing. Jaskier blinks at her, waiting for the punchline. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, when it becomes clear Yennefer isn’t going to break the extended silence, “But have you somehow gotten even more cryptic since I last saw you?” 

Yennefer doesn’t change her posture, doesn’t sit up taller, or rearrange her (sexy) legs, or even so much as tilt her head, but something shifts in the air and Jaskier shrinks back away from her, cowed by the change. “I saved your life bard, you should show me some respect.” 

If they’re keeping track; which they shouldn’t do, because it doesn’t come out in Jaskier’s favor, that’s twice now the witch has saved him. Of course, the first time she immediately endangered it again with the Djinn business, so he doesn't think it’s as big a deal as she’s making it out to be. Jaskier could answer with some pithy rejoinder, and in the past, and were he not injured, he absolutely would have. But it’s not her fault that Geralt is in love with her, and abruptly Jaskier is just— 

Tired. 

He’s tired of holding it inside of him, of fighting over a man who, last Jaskier remembers, threw them both to the curb. 

“You’re right,” he says, dredging up a smile to offer her, “thank you.” 

If she’s surprised she doesn’t show it. “I thought you were dead too,” she offers, finally. 

“I didn’t know you cared.” 

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” she smirks, and either she’s playing a very cruel trick or the universe is.

“Very funny,” Jaskier snarks back, sinking deeper into the bedding. He aches still, his body heavy with the need for more sleep, and if she’s just going to poke fun at him they can do that later when he’s more aware.

“Hey.” Yennefer says, poking him hard in the chest. He whines, batting at her hand, and she pokes him harder for his troubles.

“What? What do you want?” he groans, dragging his eyes open to stare balefully at her. 

“I’m...” she pauses, weighing her words before finally deciding on, “ _invested_ , in Geralt’s happiness. You understand, yes?” 

He nods warily at her, sensing a trap. 

“It’s not my place to interfere, and frankly I don’t really care enough to be involved either.” 

“So then what is this?” Jaskier asks, because he can’t not ask at this point. 

“This is, against my better judgement, the only thing I’m going to say on the matter.” She pierces him with the full weight of her violet gaze and he feels stuck by the intensity she radiates. “I only knew to save you because Geralt told me you were taken. Remember that.” 

She pats his chest again, a solid thump that’s just this side of painful against his bruised ribs still, but weirdly reassuring for all of that. He doesn’t know what she wants him to do with this information, doesn’t even really know what the information _is_. So Geralt cared that he was taken— that’s a low bar, really doesn’t mean much more than Geralt is still Geralt, noble and heroic and frustratingly _good_ even when he’s being a bastard. None of that had been in doubt in those lonely months after Geralt had sent him away. 

The only thing that Jaskier had doubted after that was himself, and— well, that wasn’t as easy a cure as this. _Of course_ Geralt would send someone to save him if he couldn’t do it himself. He was just _like that_. None of that had anything to do with Jaskier. He would have extended the same effort for any passing acquaintance, no matter how brief or inconsequential their relationship. 

Yennefer, oblivious to the turn of Jaskier’s thoughts, stands up, preparing to leave. “Thank you,” he says, because it needs saying, and because he means it too. She didn’t have to do this, or try to make him feel better about Geralt’s disregard, and, the attempt (no matter how ineffective,) is still worthy of gratitude. 

She only pauses long enough to nod at him before she slips out of the door, leaving Jaskier alone. 

He sighs, feeling every inch of his battered body rise up to remind him that he’s fucking exhausted. He lets sleep claim him, grateful to be safe, finally. It’s been a long time since he’s been somewhere that feeling rang true.

* * *

Jaskier heals much more quickly here than he would have on his own, wherever _here_ is. He’s been too busy sleeping and snarking at Yennefer (she’s so much funnier when he’s not actively trying to compete with her anymore) to ask any questions. By his count it’s been maybe three days now, though it’s hard to keep track of time when he’s really only awake for an hour or so at a stretch before he falls back asleep. 

He’s been up all day today though, managing to stay awake between Yennefer’s visits by writing a little bit of a ballad that’s been floating through his head in his songbook, a wonderful surprise when Yennefer had brought it to him. Apparently Nilfgaard hadn’t destroyed his items and Yennefer had been able to track them down during the rescue. Jaskier was pathetically relieved when she brought his lute to him, and if he cried that’s no one’s business but his. 

Yennefer had briefly popped in mid-morning, fed him another potion and a horrendous tea that she claimed would speed up his healing, but which he was rather certain had just been a prank, and then told him Geralt would bring him his midday meal, now that he was awake enough it wouldn’t be an ambush. 

It was terribly considerate of her, suspiciously so, but then, maybe she’d changed too. An awful lot could happen in a year as fraught as their last one. 

Now Jaskier is anxiously watching the door, aware that at any minute Geralt could be there. It’s been... nearly four seasons since he’s last seen him, a longer separation than they’d had from each other in the past two decades entirely. 

A knock from the doorway interrupts his thoughts, and Jaskier blinks back from the strange path his mind had wandered, surprised to see Geralt standing at the threshold. He looks different. Lighter, maybe, than the last time Jaskier saw him, more settled in his own skin, if that was possible. He’d always been steady, but something about him now looks _content_ , underneath the palpable anxiety in his white-knuckled grip on the tray he’s carrying and the lingering apprehension as he hovers in the doorway. 

“Come in!” Jaskier calls, because one of them has to do something.

Geralt sets the tray on the little side table and then just looms awkwardly, clearly unsure of his welcome. Jaskier rolls his eyes as he pushes himself to sitting, pulling his legs up underneath him so there’s more space on the mattress for Geralt to sit. 

“Sit down,” he orders, a little bit surprised when Geralt immediately follows it, sitting on the bed with one leg cocked at a ninety degree angle and the other braced against the floor. 

Awkwardness casts a palpable tension in the air and Jaskier _hates_ it. They’d been best friends for twenty-two years, they should be able to fucking _talk_ to each other. 

“Can we just—” he starts, suddenly desperate to move past everything that happened. “Move on?” 

“Move on?” Geralt asks, flat as ever, giving nothing away. 

“Yeah,” Jaskier mutters, fiddling idly with the blanket on his lap, “I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly eager to uh—” he breaks off, trying to think of a way to phrase what he means, and then just gives up, smiling tight-lipped at Geralt. “Well, you know,” he says, which is the closest he’s been to addressing the mountain since it happened, with anyone. 

“No.” Geralt asserts, frowning. Jaskier reels back like he’s been slapped, because _fuck_ if it doesn’t feel like it. 

“What?” he asks, the sound punched out of him, but Geralt is still talking.

“I was unfair and I’d like to apologize. I fucked up, Jaskier.” 

“We really don’t—” Jaskier tries to say, uncomfortable with the naked honesty of Geralt’s voice as he continues talking, ignoring Jaskier.

“I shouldn’t have blamed you for Cintra or for the djinn, and I’m sorry I told you it would be a blessing to be rid of you.” 

Ah _fuck_ , Jaskier feels tears welling up and he looks desperately at the ceiling, hoping to convince them to go away by tricking gravity. A losing proposition.

“Your friendship means too much to me to lose, and I’m hoping you still want to be my travel companion.” 

“Fucking hell, Geralt,” Jaskier gasps out thickly, overwhelmed, “that’s one hell of an apology.”

“You aren’t the only one I’ve had to apologize to recently,” he replies, the smug bastard, and Jaskier laughs, wiping tears from his eyes anyways. 

“Yes well, don’t make a habit of needing to,” he huffs, smiling at Geralt. “But I’d love to travel with you again. It’s been a while since I’ve written a new song and the people must be clamoring for it by now.” 

* * *

Over the next several days it becomes apparent that they’re hiding out in a mayor’s house that Yennefer... appropriated. Jaskier would feel worse about that maybe, but apparently the mayor was somewhat of an abusive dick to his citizenry and they’re all coming to Yennefer for help with various magical needs at all hours of the day anyways, so clearly if they’re okay with it Jaskier figures it’s not really his place to feel differently. 

Jaskier heals, and they all talk and share stories and have more of those damnably awkward but fucking necessary conversations, sorting out their intentions and feelings and other grossly mature things that leave everyone feeling wrung out but weirdly satisfied, or at least, that’s how Jaskier feels after. 

Geralt is headed for Cintra, finally taking up on his intentions to be there for his Child of Surprise, and Yennefer is headed for a reunion with an old friend, and that’s all the more she’ll say about it.

Jaskier, lute restored and friendship secured again, intends to follow Geralt to Cintra. He’s excited to meet the Cintran princess officially. 

It’s almost a month before they’re ready to go. 

“Yennefer, darling, you’re sure we can’t convince you to come with us?” Jaskier asks for, perhaps, the millionth time since Yenn decided she was going to go chase down an old friend of hers. 

“When have I ever been unsure of my intentions?” She asks, laughing at his pleading expression and finishing her own preparations. She kisses Geralt on the cheek as she passes by him on her way to the courtyard, and Jaskier rolls his eyes fondly as he follows them both. 

Roach is already packed and ready, munching on some grass by the side of the road where she’s tied. It only takes Geralt a moment to mount her, and then they’re ready too. 

Jaskier touches the Xenovox in his pocket, weirdly touched she’d entrusted it to him. Things have been a little strange between all of them, a sort of lingering tension left over. But this one feels anticipatory, like they’re on the edge of something exciting and good for once, instead of poised to fall backwards off a mountain. Yennefer winks at Jaskier as she slips through the portal she’s created and Jaskier blinks in surprise, wondering if maybe she— no she wouldn’t have read his thoughts without his permission.

He turns to Geralt, smiling widely up at him. “Off we go then, onwards to Cintra!” 

Geralt grunts, but spurs Roach into moving with naught but a soft eye roll at Jaskier’s dramatics.

“Do you think Calanthe has mellowed out in her older age,” Jaskier muses, once they’re someway down the path, “or do you anticipate this is going to go poorly for us?” 

Geralt casts a sideways glance at Jaskier then huffs out a quiet laugh. “It’s going to go as poorly as anything with Calanthe has ever gone. But it’s the right thing. Someone needs to keep the child safe, and with Nilfgaard advancing towards Cintra, taking him away while the risk is highest is the best we can do.” 

Jaskier briefly considers telling Geralt the child is a princess, immediately realizes how fucking funny it’s going to be when the princess is actually revealed, and decides discretion is the better part of valor. 

“Well!” he says brightly, skipping slightly ahead, “at least we’ll be together again.” 

Geralt doesn’t say anything to that, but Jaskier catches the slight smile on his face, and can’t help the answering smile on his own. This is going to be an adventure. 

_Oh_ , how Jaskier’s missed those. 

* * *

_vii._ _Several Months Later_

Sitting around the campfire, dripping wet from being caught in the rain earlier, and shivering next to Ciri, Jaskier stares at Geralt and Yennefer as they argue passionately about whether it’s safer to go to Kaer Morhen or to hide out in whatever housing Yenn can scare up for them as they keep moving around the continent. 

Ciri shivers particularly hard next to him, and Jaskier shifts so he can wrap his arm more firmly around her. “I think we’ve had enough of adventuring for a while.” He says, pitching his voice just enough that it carries over to both of them. 

They pause their argument to look at him and Ciri, and they must look particularly pathetic because both of them subside immediately. Yennefer comes over to sit next to Ciri, who abandons Jaskier to cuddle up to her, and Geralt drops down next to Jaskier. The witcher is a wall of warmth next to him, and Jaskier snuggles in closer, pleased by the implicit comfort.

“Never thought you’d tire of adventuring, Jask,” Geralt murmurs into his hair. Jaskier shivers again, inexplicably pleased by the way Geralt’s closeness is affecting him, and then laughs because fuck, Geralt’s right. 

“In my old age,” he starts, laughing still, “I find that the pleasure of adventuring is best experienced indirectly, I think.” 

Geralt snorts into his hair, ruffling it, and Jaskier leans back so he can smile up at him. Things may be dire right now, but he always feels better with Geralt. Geralt is smiling at him too, something almost painfully soft in his eyes as they share this quiet moment. “I can think of a few things that are still better experienced directly,” he says quietly, “even in your old age.” 

“Mmm,” Jaskier hums, tipping his chin up in a silent invitation, “Care to offer an example?” anticipation thrums warmly in his belly as Geralt leans in closer, pausing just inches from his mouth.

“This, for one,” he whispers, and then kisses him, a soft but insistent press of his lips against Jaskier’s. Jaskier, spine melting, opens his mouth into it, nipping at Geralt’s lips as he pulls back slightly. 

“I’ve wanted you to do that for so long,” Jaskier whispers, pulling Geralt into another kiss, one hand locked into the front of his armor, the other reaching around to hold onto his shoulder. He’s just working a hand up the back of Geralt’s shirt when Ciri makes a disgusted noise behind them, “ _Oh gross_!” she cries, as Yennefer clicks her tongue at them. They break apart, flushing red. Jaskier had quite forgotten they had an audience. 

_Oops_. 

“Well, Ciri, when you’re my age—” Geralt claps one gloved hand over his mouth before he can finish, and Jaskier smiles against it, as Ciri starts laughing at whatever it is Yenn’s just whispered in her ear. 

Affection and love and contentment rises up in his chest and he leans back into Geralt’s comforting bulk, basking in the lovely atmosphere. They’ll figure it out, he has no doubt. 

They always do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, especially if you're here in the future, hopefully far removed from the _fucking mess_ at the capitol this past week: As an American I admit, I expected some type of fuckery all along, but I've never been less pleased to have been proven right. 
> 
> ANYWAYS!
> 
> As ever, I hope you enjoyed, and I really especially hope it lived up to expectations! that's always my biggest fear with multi-chapter fics so if you liked it or enjoyed the journey let me know! I live for comments and validation and kudos and such :D
> 
> also thank you just for reading at all, I appreciate you too fandom lurkers: we all start somewhere :3 <3
> 
> Oh and one last thought, because it almost wrecked my beta (ONCE AGAIN JENN YOU ARE A LIFESAVER AND I LOVE YOU SO MUCH) I was _this close_ like a razor's width margin close, to ending the chapter at _"Yes, even him too."_ and just letting y'all think I fully killed off Jaskier but like, my ladies, my lads, my they-dies: I couldn't do that to ya. I am no Lucky Luciano, so you got the softness we all so desperately need after the hellishness that is reality.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! come say hi on [tumblr](teamfreehoodies.tumblr.com)!


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